THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FANNY  BUTCHER A  BOOKS 

75   EAST   ADAMS    STREET 

CHICAGO 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 


Books  by  William  McFee 
999 

ALIENS 

AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 
CAPTAIN  MACEDOINE'S  DAUGHTER 

CASUALS  OF  THE  SEA 
PORT  SAID  MISCELLANY 


An  Ocean  Tramp 

By 
William   McFee 


Garden  City,  N.  Y.,  and  Toronto 

Doubleday,  Page   &    Company 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,   INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


TO 
A R- 


"  She  was  lovable,  and  he  loved  her.     But  he 
was  not  lovable,  and  she  did  not  love  him." 

— HEINE'S  Reisebilder 


504767 

LIBRARY 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

IN  THE  original  preface  to  the  First  Edition,  it  will  be 
seen  that  by  a  perfectly  justifiable  stroke  of  artistic 
manipulation,  the  writer  of  the  letters,  the  Ocean 
Tramp  himself,  is  drowned  at  sea.  Neither  author 
nor  publisher  had  offered  any  guarantee  that  the 
book  was  a  record  of  cold  facts,  and  it  was  not  deemed 
necessary  at  that  time  to  disillusion  any  of  the  public 
who  saw  fit  to  send  in  condolences  upon  the  tragic 
end  of  a  promising  career.  Nevertheless,  the  book 
was  faithful  enough  in  a  larger  sense,  for  the  young 
man  who  wrote  it  had  undoubtedly  died  and  buried 
himself  in  its  pages.  His  place,  it  appeared  presently, 
was  taken  by  a  cynical  person  who  voyaged  all  over 
the  seven  seas  in  various  steamers,  accumulating  im- 
mense stocks  of  local  colour,  passing  through  the 
divers  experiences  which  befall  sailor-men,  reading  a 
good  many  books,  and  gradually  assuming  the  role 
of  an  amused  spectator.  Of  this  person,  however, 
there  is  no  need  to  speak  just  now,  and  we  must  go 
back  to  the  time  when  the  author,  in  that  condition 
known  to  the  cloth  as  "out  of  a  ship,"  arrived  in 
London,  the  following  pages  tied  up  in  a  piece  of 


viii        PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

bunting,  in  his  dunnage,  and  took  a  small  suite  of 
chambers  over  the  ancient  gate  of  Cliffords  Inn. 
Now  it  would  be  easy  enough,  and  the  temptation  is 
great,  to  convey  the  impression  that  the  writer  had 
arrived  in  the  Metropolis  to  make  his  name  and  win 
fame  and  fortune  with  his  manuscript.  So  runs  the 
tale  in  many  a  novel  issued  during  the  last  twenty- 
five  years.  It  is  time,  therefore,  to  invent  something 
new.  The  penniless  law-student  who  writes  a  best 
seller  and  wins  the  love  of  a  celebrated  actress  must 
make  way  for  a  sea-going  engineer  with  a  year's 
wages  and  a  volume  of  essays  in  his  pocket,  and  who 
had  not  succeeded  in  winning  the  love  of  anybody. 
Indeed  the  singular  moderation  of  the  demands  of 
this  young  man  will  be  appreciated  by  any  one  who 
has  been  afflicted  with  ambition,  for  he  has  never  at 
any  time  desired  either  to  write  a  play,  edit  a  magazine, 
or  marry  a  prima-donna.  At  the  particular  juncture 
when  he  took  over  the  little  suite  of  furnished  cham- 
bers from  a  young  newspaper  man  who  had  received 
a  sudden  invitation  to  visit  a  rich  uncle,  his  principal 
preoccupation  was  to  pass  his  examination  for  his 
certificate  of  competency  as  a  first-class  engineer. 
To  this  end  he  began  a  mysterious  existence  possible 
only  to  the  skilled  Londoner.  For  the  benefit  of 
those  who  are  not  skilled  Londoners,  the  following 
description  may  evoke  interest. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION          ix 

In  the  morning  on  waking,  he  saw,  through  the 
small  bowed  window  which  looked  out  into  the  Inn, 
the  sunlight  shining  upon  the  gilded  gothic  roof  of 
the  Rolls  Building  and  possibly  touching  the  tops  of 
the  trees  of  the  grimy  enclosure.  Stepping  through 
into  the  front  room  he  could  lean  out  of  a  mullioned 
affair  below  which  he  could  read  the  date  carved  in 
the  stone — 1472 — and  looking  up  a  long  narrow  court 
he  could  watch  the  morning  traffic  of  the  Strand 
passing  the  farther  end  like  the  film  of  a  cinemato- 
graph. Down  below,  a  gentleman  who  sold  studs, 
shoe-laces,  and  dying  pigs  on  the  curb,  and  who  kept 
his  stock  in  a  cupboard  under  the  arch,  was  preparing 
to  start  out  for  the  day.  A  dying  pig,  it  may  be 
mentioned,  was  a  toy  much  in  demand  among  stock- 
broking  clerks  and  other  frivolous  young  gentlemen 
in  the  City,  and  consisted  of  a  bladder  shaped  like 
a  pig  whose  snout  contained  a  whistle  which  gave 
out  on  deflation  an  almost  human  note  of  anguish. 
Should  the  hour  be  before  eight,  which  was  probable 
since  the  author  had  contracted  the  habit,  at  sea, 
of  rising  at  four,  he  would  be  further  exhilarated  by 
seeing  his  landlord,  Mr.  Honeyball,  in  a  tightly  but- 
toned frock-coat  and  wide-awake  hat,  march  with  an 
erect  and  military  air  to  the  end  of  the  passage,  dart 
a  piercing  glance  in  either  direction,  and  remain, 
hands  behind  back  and  shoulders  squared,  taking  thq 


x  PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

air.  Which  meant  that  Mrs.  Honeyball  was  engaged 
in  the  dark  and  dungeon-like  kitchen  below  the  worn 
flags  of  the  archway,  preparing  the  coffee  and  bacon 
for  Mr.  Honeyball's  breakfast. 

Having  washed  and  shaved — and  here  it  may  be 
set  down,  for  the  benefit  of  Americans  and  others  not 
skilled  in  metropolitan  existence,  that  when  a  build- 
ing bears  over  its  archway  the  date  1472  the  bathing 
arrangements  within  will  not  be  of  the  most  modern 
design — the  author  then  took  his  pipe,  tobacco,  and 
cane  and  prepared  to  descend  the  winding  stone  stair- 
way which  ended  in  a  door  of  heavy  wood.  This 
contrivance  opened  directly  upon  the  small  triangular 
chamber  where  Mrs.  Honeyball  each  day  laid  the 
meals  for  herself  and  husband,  transacted  her  rent- 
collecting,  and  received  occasional  visitors  during 
late  afternoon,  self-effacing  ladies  of  mature  age  who 
seemed  to  shrink  back  into  the  panelling  behind 
them  and  who  assumed  the  anxious  immobility  of 
figures  in  high  relief,  if  the  phrase  may  be  allowed  to 
pass.  At  this  early  hour,  however,  no  one  is  in  sight 
save  Mrs.  Honeyball  herself,  a  slight  elderly  person 
with  that  look  of  pink  beatification  on  her  face  which 
accompanies  some  forms  of  Christianity,  emerging 
from  another  door  which  leads  down  a  curved  stair- 
way to  subterranean  regions.  Mrs.  Honeyball,  it 
may  be  stated  in  parenthesis,  is  of  the  great  family  of 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION         xi 

hero-worshippers,  women  who  are  inspired  with  an 
indomitable  and  quite  illogical  faith  in  the  wisdom 
and  strength  of  their  gentlemen  friends.  The  mere 
fact  of  the  author  being  a  nautical  character  is  suffi- 
cient for  Mrs.  Honeyball.  Beyond  going  as  far  as 
Margate  on  the  Clacton  Belle,  a  fat,  squab-shaped  side- 
wheel  affair  very  popular  with  London  folk  in  that 
era,  Mrs.  Honeyball's  acquaintance  with  the  sea  is 
purely  theoretical.  To  her  all  seafaring  men  are 
courageous,  simple-hearted  stalwarts  having  their 
business  in  great  waters,  and  she  has  intimated  that 
she  always  remembers  them  in  her  prayers.  The 
modest  breakfast,  for  two,  is  spread  on  one  side  of  the 
round  table  which  is  so  much  too  large  for  the  room. 
She  would  be  only  too  pleased  if  she  could  board  me, 
but  it  is  not  allowed.  The  Inn,  I  have  been  given  to 
understand,  has  been  bought  outright  by  some  person 
of  great  wealth,  whose  design  is  to  pull  it  down  and 
erect  a  block  of  apartments.  Mrs.  Honeyball  is 
somewhat  afraid  of  this  person.  She  gets  in  a  great 
flutter,  about  the  twentieth  of  the  month,  over  her 
accounts.  Just  now,  however,  she  is  placidly  benevo- 
lent and  hopes  that  author  has  slept  well.  He  has 
and  says  so,  and  opening  the  outer  door,  an  immense 
portal  of  heavy  wood  studded  with  big  black  nails, 
he  steps  down  into  the  archway,  where  Mr.  Honeyball 
is  encountered.  Mr.  Honeyball  has  been  in  the 


xii         PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

army,  has  retired  on  a  sergeant-major's  pension  after 
twenty-three  years  service'  and  he  salutes  the  author 
in  correct  military  fashion. 

These  amenities  concluded  and  watches  compared 
with  the  great  clock  of  the  Law  Courts  visible  from 
the  end  of  the  passage,  the  author  turned  westward 
and  set  off  briskly  toward  Charing  Cross,  buying  a 
paper  on  the  way,  and  noting  from  time  to  time  the 
attractively  attired  young  ladies  who  were  hurrying 
to  their  various  employments.  At  the  risk  of  evoking 
a  certain  conventional  incredulity  in  the  readers' 
bosom,  the  author  is  constrained  to  point  out  that  he 
harboured  only  the  purest  and  most  abstract  senti- 
ments towards  these  young  women.  There  is  a  period 
in  the  life  of  the  literary  artist,  unhappily  not  perma- 
nent, when  the  surface  of  his  mind  may  be  described 
as  absorbent  of  emotional  influences,  a  period  which 
results  in  the  accumulation  of  vast  quantities  of  data 
concerning  women  without  to  any  degree  destroying 
the  authentic  simplicity  of  his  heart.  And  when  the 
point  of  saturation  is  reached,  to  use  an  engineer's 
phrase,  the  artist,  still  preserving  his  own  innocence, 
begins  to  produce.  And  this,  one  may  remark  in 
passing,  is  the  happiest  time  of  his  life!  He  com- 
bines the  felicity  of  youth,  the  wisdom  of  age,  and  the 
unencumbered  vitality  of  manhood.  He  knows, 
even  while  in  love,  as  he  frequently  is  at  such  periods, 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION       xiii 

that  there  are  loftier  peaks  beyond,  mountain-ranges 
of  emotion  up  which  some  day  he  is  destined  to  travel, 
and  he  disregards  the  pathetic  seductions  of  those 
who  would  bid  him  settle  in  their  quiet  valleys. 

Arriving  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Charing  Cross, 
the  author  takes  an  affectionate  glimpse  into  Trafal- 
gar Square,  and  turns  down  a  steep,  narrow  street, 
leading  towards  the  River,  where  is  situated  a  small 
eating  house.  At  that  time,  it  should  be  observed, 
almost  the  only  way  for  a  stranger  to  obtain  a  break- 
fast in  London  was  to  go  to  a  hotel  and  engage  a  room. 
Even  at  railroad  terminals,  where  the  refreshment- 
rooms  were  just  beginning  to  be  swept  and  garnished, 
and  the  waitresses  were  yawning  behind  the  big 
urns,  they  did  not  regard  the  famished  traveller  with 
any  enthusiasm.  It  was  felt  that  a  stranger  wanting 
food  at  that  hour  had  been  up  to  no  good.  The 
author,  being  a  skilled  Londoner,  was  put  to  no  such 
inconvenience.  It  was  his  habit,  at  intervals,  to  write 
special  articles  for  the  London  papers,  articles  which 
had  to  be  delivered  to  the  night  commissionaire  on 
duty  in  the  office  of  the  newspaper.  The  particular 
functionary  employed  by  the  News  was  a  social  being 
and  fond  of  port,  and  over  a  dock-glass  at  Finches, 
the  celebrated  bar  in  Fleet  Street,  had  recommended 
a  certain  chop-house  where  night-birds  ate  before 
retiring  to  their  nests  in  distant  suburbs.  To  this 


xiv         PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

hostelry  the  author  therefore  repairs,  down  the  narrow 
declivity,  in  at  the  door  whose  brass  handles  are  being 
vigorously  polished  by  a  youth  in  a  green  baize  apron, 
and  upstairs  to  a  long  low  chamber  furnished  with 
small  tables.  Here  one  discovers  some  half-dozen 
strays  from  the  millions  of  Londoners  who  breakfast 
in  orthodox  fashion — in  the  secrecy  and  sullen  silence 
of  their  own  homes.  And  the  salient  feature  of  the 
people  in  this  upstairs  room  is  the  inexorable  isolation 
of  their  souls.  No  one  speaks.  One  or  two  look  up 
from  their  food  as  the  author  makes  his  way  to  the 
window  from  which  he  commands  a  glimpse  of  blue 
sky,  the  elevation  of  an  enormous  brick  wall,  and 
possibly  a  locomotive  having  its  firebox  cleaned  on  a 
siding  and  panting  as  though  afflicted  with  lung  trou- 
ble. He  takes  his  seat  not  far  from  a  young  woman 
who  is  breakfasting  on  a  bun  and  a  glass  of  milk. 
She  is  reading  a  book,  a  fat  novel  in  fine  print,  the 
covers  soiled  with  food  and  the  corners  grimy  with 
years  of  friction.  She  is  there  every  morning  eating 
a  bun  and  drinking  a  glass  of  milk.  She  has  a  clear, 
delicate  face,  blonde  hair,  and  large  black  eyes.  Her 
hands  are  fine,  too,  though  they  might  be  better  kept. 
One  suspects  she  does  her  own  washing  after  she  gets 
home  at  night. 

The  reader  may  possibly  wonder  why  the  author 
should  lower  himself  in  the  esteem  of  men  by  dilating 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION         xv 

upon  the  appearance  of  a  stray  young  woman  whom 
fate  had  washed  up  on  the  shores  of  time  near  him  and 
whom  the  next  wave  would  inevitably  bear  away 
again.  But  the  reader  must  exercise  a  little  patience. 
Several  women  appear  in  this  preface,  and  the  author 
imagines  they  may  reveal  to  the  reader  something  of 
the  mentality  which  wrote  this  book.  A  mentality 
somewhat  alien  to  the  English,  since  it  was  pro- 
foundly interested  in  women  without  incurring  any 
suspicion  of  French  naughtiness,  or  endeavouring  in 
any  way  to  make  itself  pleasing  to  them.  A  men- 
tality hampered  by  an  almost  hysterical  shyness 
which,  however,  was  capable  of  swift  and  complete 
evaporation  in  certain  circumstances. 

So  far,  let  it  be  premised,  the  shyness  was  still  in 
evidence,  and  the  author  became  as  silent  and  austere 
as  the  other  members  of  the  company.  There  was  a 
youth,  in  trousers  obviously  pressed  under  his  mat- 
tress, and  a  coat  too  short  for  him,  whose  air  of  shabby 
smartness  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  author, 
who  had  passed  through  very  much  the  same  purga- 
tory years  before.  Indeed  it  was  very  much  like  a 
coffee  room  in  purgatory,  if  the  reader  can  imagine 
such  a  thing,  for  every  one  of  the  patrons  had  this 
distinguishing  trait — they  were  shackled  and  tortured 
and  seared  by  the  lack  of  a  little  money.  The  mangy 
old  waif  who  asked  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  furtively 


xvi        PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

fished  out  of  a  little  black  oil-cloth  bag  a  couple  of 
thick  sandwiches;  the  middle-aged  person  with  a  fine 
moustache,  frock-coat,  and  silk-hat,  who  ordered 
coffee  and  bacon  and  eggs,  and  forgot  to  eat  while  his 
tired  eyes  fixed  themselves  with  insane  intensity  upon 
a  mineral-water  advertisement  on  the  opposite  wall; 
the  foreign  lady  (whom  the  author  hastens  to  record 
as  a  virtuous  matron)  whose  bizarre  hat  and  brightly 
painted  cheeks  were  stowed  away  in  an  obscure  and 
lonely  corner  where  she  pored  over  a  Greek  news- 
paper; the  middle-aged  gentleman  whose  marbled 
note-book  was  filled  with  incredibly  fine  writing  and 
columns  of  figures  which  ought  to  have  meant  some- 
thing substantial,  but  which  were  probably  only  lists 
of  bad  debts  utterly  uncollectable — all  these  poor 
people  would  have  been  carried  up  to  heaven  had 
they  suddenly  discovered  under  their  plates  a  twenty- 
pound  note.  And  the  desire  to  do  this  thing,  to  play 
the  rich  uncle  for  once,  was  at  times  so  keen  that  the 
author  felt  himself  in  purgatory,  too,  in  a  way,  and 
lost  his  appetite  thinking  about  it. 

The  reader  may  opine  that  such  a  meal  would  be 
but  a  poor  preliminary  for  a  morning  of  study,  but  the 
fact  remains  that  the  contemplation  of  misery  stimu- 
lates one's  mental  perceptions.  Once  more  out  in 
the  Strand,  having  watched  the  young  woman  de- 
scend the  narrow  street  and  fling  a  swift  glance  over 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION       xvii 

her  shoulder  as  she  turned  into  Northumberland  Ave- 
nue, the  author  mounted  a  Barking  'bus  and  settled 
himself  in  the  front  seat,  a  gay  little  Union  Jack 
fluttering  just  above  his  head,  and  gave  himself  up 
unreservedly  to  reflections  evoked  by  a  return,  after 
some  years  at  sea,  to  his  native  air.  Every  foot  of 
the  way  eastward  brought  up  memories  long  dormant 
beneath  the  swarms  of  alien  impressions  received 
since  going  to  sea,  impressions  that  ranged  from  the 
songs  of  an  octaroon  in  a  blind-tiger  back  of  Ogle- 
thorpe  Avenue  in  Savannah,  to  the  mellow  Boom- 
cling-clang  of  temple-bells  heard  in  the  flawless  dawn 
from  a  verandah  above  the  sampan-cluttered  canals 
of  Osaka.  Between  his  nostrils  and  the  ancient 
odours  of  creosote  blocks  and  of  river  mud  drying 
at  low  tide  came  the  heavy  scent  of  Arab  quarters, 
the  reek  of  Argentine  slaughter-houses  and  the  subtle 
pervasions  of  Singapore.  Since  he  had  read  with 
careless  neglect  the  familiar  names  over  familiar 
shops  where  he  and  his  father  had  dealt  in  the  com- 
mon things  of  life,  his  eyes  had  ached  with  the 
glittering  hieroglyphics  of  Chinatown  and  the  in- 
comprehensible futilities  of  Armenian  and  Cyrillic 
announcements.  So  it  came  about  that  he  regarded 
the  cheerful,  homely,  and  sun-lit  Strand  with  extraor- 
dinary delight,  a  delight  enhanced  by  the  incorri- 
gible conviction  that  in  a  few  weeks  he  would  quit  it 


xviii      PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

once  more  for  distant  shores.  Yet  the  charm,  evanes- 
cent as  it  was,  laid  an  authentic  hand  upon  his  pulse 
and  made  it  beat  more  quickly.  Here  he  had  bought 
his  first  dress-suit.  The  tailor's  shop  was  gone 
and  a  restaurant  with  bulging  glass  windows  thrust 
out  a  portly  stomach  into  the  street.  Here  again 
he  had  lunched  in  days  gone  by  on  Saturdays, 
and  loitered  far  into  the  afternoon  to  flirt  with  the 
waitress.  Here,  where  Wellington  Street  plunged 
across  and  flung  itself  upon  Waterloo  Bridge,  one 
beheld  staggering  changes.  The  mountainous  motor 
bus  put  on  speed  and  scampered  past  the  churches 
left  like  rocky  islets  in  the  midst  of  a  swift  river  of 
traffic.  Once  past  Temple  Bar  and  in  the  narrow 
defile  of  Fleet  Street  the  author's  thoughts  darted 
up  Fetter  Lane  and  hovered  around  a  grimy  building 
where  he  had  pursued  his  studies  with  the  relentless 
fanaticism  of  youthful  ambition.  There,  under  the 
lamp-post  at  the  corner,  one  keen  evening  in  early 
spring,  he  had  what  was  for  him  a  tremendous  emo- 
tional experience.  In  the  German  class  (for  he  was 
all  for  Wilhelm  Meister,  Faust,  The  Robbers,  and  Dich- 
tung  und  Wahrheit  in  those  days)  was  a  German  girl 
learning  English,  a  robust,  vital,  brown-haired  wench 
from  Stuttgart.  Often  when  it  came  to  his  turn  to 
read  from  the  set  piece  of  literature,  he  felt  this  girl's 
eyes  upon  him  and  he  would  raise  his  own  to  find  her 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION        xix 

regarding  him  with  a  steady,  appraising  glance.  And 
yet  she  seemed  to  vanish  effectively  enough  in  the 
general  confusion  of  departure.  Once  she  picked 
up  his  pencil  and  asked  mutely  for  the  use  of  it,  and 
he  assented  with  what  he  knew  was  a  fiery  blush. 
She  replaced  it  with  a  firm  nod  of  the  head  and  her 
steady  glance.  For  a  few  days  the  thought  of  her 
bothered  his  dreams  and  then,  in  the  fanatical  pursuit 
of  knowledge,  the  mood  evaporated.  Perhaps  she 
was  aware  of  this  and  laid  her  plans  accordingly,  for 
on  the  last  evening  of  the  session,  as  he  came  down 
the  steps  of  the  college  and  turned  toward  Fetter 
Lane,  he  saw  her  standing  under  the  lamp-post  at 
the  corner.  A  frightful  predicament!  It  was  one 
thing  to  read  about  Johann  Wolfgang  Goethe  and  his 
free  emotional  development,  about  Arthur  Schopen- 
hauer living  in  Venice  with  his  mistress  and  writing 
philosophical  works,  or  to  approve  the  newly  trans- 
lated vapourings  of  Frederick  Nietzsche.  It  was 
quite  another  to  walk  steadily  onward  and  encounter 
a  robust,  vital,  brown-haired  wench  from  Stuttgart 
who  stood  waiting  with  unmistakable  invitation  in 
her  pose.  When  he  arrived  at  the  corner  he  was  in  a 
condition  bordering  on  blind  panic  and  he  heard, 
as  through  a  thick  wall,  a  hoarse,  musical  voice  mur- 
mur unintelligible  words.  He  heard  himself  murmur 
something  which  brought  a  look  of  angry  astonish- 


xx         PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

ment  into  her  eyes.  He  heard  the  words  "Don't  you 
like  me?"  far  off,  drowned  by  a  buzzing  of  the  blood 
in  his  ear-drums.  And  then  a  vicious  thrust  forward 
of  the  blonde  head,  a  show  of  big  white  teeth,  and  the 
contemptuous  phrase  "Nassty  you  are!"  as  she  flung 
round  and  hurried  down  the  street. 

No  doubt  she  was  right.  Often,  in  the  night- 
watches  at  sea,  the  author  has  recalled  the  vitality  of 
her  appeal,  the  genuine  frankness  of  her  character, 
and  wished  for  an  opportunity  to  express  his  regret 
for  his  gaucherie  and  offer  adequate  amends.  And 
as  the  'bus  lumbers  along  towards  Ludgate  Hill  he 
thinks  of  her  and  wonders  precisely  what  purpose 
these  fugitive  and  fortuitous  encounters  serve.  These 
futile  yet  fascinating  conjectures  bring  him  past 
Saint  Paul's,  in  whose  shadow  he  has  spent  many 
hours  reading  old  books  at  the  stalls  in  Holywell 
Street,  and  the  'bus  races  along  Cannon  Street,  is 
brought  up  almost  on  its  hind  wheels  at  the  Mansion 
House  Corner,  and  the  author  gets  a  brief  glimpse  of 
Princes  Street  and  Moorgate  Street,  where  he  was 
once  "something  in  the  City"  as  we  used  to  say, 
before  the  policeman's  hand  is  lowered  and  the  east- 
bound  traffic  roars  along  Threadneedle  Street  and  so 
down  to  Aldgate,  where  the  author  descends  by  the 
famous  Pump,  to  begin  the  serious  business  of  the 
day.  For  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  this  daily 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION       xxi 

'bus-ride  from  Charing  Cross  to  Aldgate  Pump  is  not 
prosecuted  in  a  spirit  of  sentimental  reverie.  The 
author  is  going  to  school.  Across  the  road  may  be 
seen  a  building  athwart  whose  topmost  window  runs 
a  tarnished  gold  sign  Teague's  School  of  Engineering, 
only  all  three  ns  of  the  last  word  are  missing,  which 
seems  in  keeping  with  the  name  Teague  somehow, 
and  gives  the  whole  affair  a  touch  of  Irish  dissipation. 
Nothing,  however,  could  be  more  misleading.  Up- 
stairs, four  flights,  the  last  two  uncarpeted  or 
linoleumed,  one  discovers  only  an  austere  establish- 
ment from  which  both  Teague  and  his  possible  dissi- 
pation are  long  since  departed.  The  business  is  now 
owned  by  a  dapper  young  man  of  pleasing  exterior 
and  almost  uncanny  technical  omniscience,  who  for 
a  lump  inclusive  fee  undertakes  to  pull  the  most 
illiterate  of  seafarers  through  the  narrowportals  of  the 
government  examination.  He  gives  that  impression 
as  he  sits  at  his  desk  in  his  private  office,  the  cuffs  of 
his  grey  frock-coat  and  his  starched  white  shirt  drawn 
up  out  of  the  way.  He  has  the  capable  air  of  a 
surgeon,  the  swift,  impersonal  competence  of  an  ex- 
perienced accoucheur.  His  business  is  to  get  results. 
It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  he  gets  them. 

In  the  room  beyond,  however,  in  which  the  author 
takes  his  seat  in  the  humble  capacity  of  student, 
there  is  the  curiously  strained  atmosphere  that  is  to 


xxii        PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

be  found  in  all  companies  of  disparate  personalities 
intent  upon  a  common  end.  Seated  in  rows  at  a 
number  of  pine  desks  are  a  score  of  men  whose  ages 
range  from  twenty-three  to  forty-five.  Some  are 
smoking.  Others,  with  tongue  protruding  slightly 
from  the  corner  of  the  mouth,  and  head  on  one  side, 
are  slowly  and  painfully  copying  the  drawing  of  a 
pump  or  a  valve-box.  Others,  again,  are  in  the  murky 
depths  of  vast  arithmetical  solutions  extracting,  with 
heavy  breathings,  the  cube  root  from  some  formidable 
quantity,  and  bringing  it  to  the  surface  exhausted  and 
far  from  certain  as  to  the  ultimate  utility  of  their 
discoveries.  They  have  come  from  the  far  ends  of 
the  sea-lanes,  these  men,  from  Niger  River  ports  and 
the  coast  towns  of  China,  from  lordly  liners  and 
humble  tramps,  from  the  frozen  fjords  of  Alborg  and 
the  crowded  tideways  of  the  Hooghley.  They  are 
extraordinarily  unprepossessing,  most  of  them,  for 
the  time  was  not  yet  when  sea-going  was  considered, 
save  as  a  last  resource,  like  selling  newspapers  or  going 
to  America.  These  men  were  mostly  artisans,  thick- 
fingered  mechanics  who  had  gone  to  sea,  driven  by 
some  obscure  urge  or  prosaic  economic  necessity, 
and  the  sea  had  changed  them,  as  it  changes  every- 
thing, fashioning  in  them  a  blunt  work-a-day  fatalism 
and  a  strong,  coarse-fibred  character  admirably 
adapted  to  their  way  of  life.  But  that  way  is  far 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION      xxiii 

from  schools  and  colleges.  They  lack  that  subtle 
academical  atmosphere  so  essential  to  genuine  cul- 
ture. They  have  none  of  them  what  the  educated 
classes  call  an  examination  brain.  They  resemble  a 
pack  of  sheep-dogs  in  a  parlour.  They  accept  with 
pathetic  fidelity  the  dogmas  of  their  text-books,  and 
they  submit  humbly  to  incarceration  while  their 
heads  are  loaded  down  with  formulas  and  theories, 
most  of  which  they  jettison  with  relief  when  they  feel 
the  first  faint  lift  of  the  vessel  to  the  ocean  swell  out- 
side the  breakwater. 

But  it  should  on  no  account  be  assumed  from  the 
above  truthful  estimate  of  their  mentality  that  these 
men  are  to  be  dismissed  as  mere  factory  hands  or 
negligible  land-failures.  The  sea  has  her  own  way  of 
making  men,  and  informs  them,  as  the  years  and  miles 
go  by,  with  a  species  of  differential  intuition,  a  flexible 
mental  mechanism  which  calibrates  and  registers  with 
astonishing  accuracy  and  speed.  They  become  pro- 
found judges  of  human  character  within  the  rough 
walls  of  their  experience,  and  for  women  they  betray 
a  highly  specialized  esteem.  .  . 

For  all  that,  as  they  sit  here  in  their  extremely 
respectable  blue  serge  suits,  which  still  show  the 
sharp  creases  where  they  were  laid  away  in  unskillful 
folds  during  the  voyage,  they  give  one  an  impression 
of  lugubrious  failure.  It  must  be  confessed  that 


xxiv      PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

simple  as  the  examinations  are  they  are  beyond  the 
range  of  many  of  us.  The  habits  of  study  are  not 
easily  retained  during  the  long  stretches  of  watch- 
keeping  intermitted  with  hilarious  trips  ashore.  We 
find  a  great  difficulty  in  keeping  our  minds  on  the 
problems  set  down.  Outside  is  a  blue  sky,  the  roar 
of  traffic  at  the  confluence  of  four  great  thorough- 
fares, and  the  call  of  London,  a  very  siren  among 
cities,  when  one  knows !  Over  yonder,  a  cigarette  in 
his  mouth,  his  head  on  his  hand  and  his  elbow  asprawl 
on  the  desk,  making  idle  marks  with  a  pencil,  is  a 
youth  who  is  nursing  a  grievance  against  the  govern- 
ment. He  has  been  up  eight  times  and  failed  every 
time.  He  is  going  up  again  with  us  next  Tuesday. 
Yet,  as  it  has  been  whispered  to  me  during  lunch 
hour  by  my  neighbour,  a  robust  individual  just  home 
from  Rangoon,  he  is  a  first-class  man;  just  the  chap 
in  a  break-down;  always  on  the  job;  fine  record. 
There  is  another,  between  us  and  the  sectional  model 
of  a  feed  pump  valve,  who  never  looks  up,  but  figures 
unceasingly  with  elbows  close  to  his  sides,  his  toes 
turned  in,  the  nape  of  an  obstinate,  close-cropped 
neck  glistening  pale  gold  and  pink  in  the  morning  sun. 
Without  having  been  to  sea  with  this  party  or  even 
having  seen  his  face,  one  is  aware  that  he  will  always 
be  found  with  his  pale  eyes  wide  open  when  the  light 
is  flicked  on  at  One  Bell.  He  has  been  sometime 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION-       xxv 

in  tramp-steamers,  who  carry  no  oilers,  for  there  is 
a  hard  callous  on  the  knuckle  of  his  right  forefin- 
ger where  the  oil-feeder  handle  has  been  chafing. 
Whether  he  would  be  a  tower  of  strength  in  a  smash- 
up  is  not  so  easily  divined.  Next  to  him  a  young 
gentleman  is  sitting  sideways  smoking,  a  pair  of 
handsome  cuff-buttons  of  Indian  design  flashing  at 
his  wrists.  He  is,  my  neighbour  has  informed  me 
during  lunch,  from  the  P.  &  O.  and  he  corroborates 
this  by  asking  a  question  of  the  lecturer  concerning 
a  broken  valve-spindle  of  enormous  dimensions.  He 
stands  for  class  in  our  community  and  gives  a  certain 
tone  to  the  group  who  go  up  on  Tuesday.  Unhappily 
he  falls  out  on  the  second  day,  owing  to  certain 
defects  in  his  arithmetic,  and  disappears.  No  doubt 
he  has  gone  to  another  sea-port  to  try  a  less  austere 
examiner. 

And  after  lunch,  the  principal  of  Teague's  School 
of  Engineering  suddenly  emerges  from  his  private 
office,  hangs  up  a  card  labelled  "No  Smoking  during 
Lectures"  and  proceeds  to  feed  us  with  the  irredu- 
cible minimum  of  information  necessary  for  our  or- 
deal. By  long  practice,  astute  contriving,  and  careful 
cross-examination  of  successful  pupils  he  has  arrived 
at  such  a  pass  that  he  seems  to  know  more  about  the 
examiner's  mind  than  that  gentleman  himself.  He 
repeats  slowly  and  deliberately  the  exact  form  of 


xxvi       PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

answer  which  is  most  likely  to  draw  approval  from 
the  grand  inquisitor,  and  we  copy  it  down  hastily  in 
our  notes.  The  sleeves  of  his  grey  frock-coat  are 
pulled  back  to  keep  the  chalk  dust  from  soiling  them 
as  he  rapidly  sketches  on  the  board  for  our  edifica- 
tion. We  listen  with  respect,  for  we  know  he  has 
been  through  precisely  the  same  mill  as  ourselves, 
he  has  come  on  watch  at  midnight  with  his  mouth 
dry  and  his  eye-lids  sagging  and  wishing  in  his  heart 
he  were  dead.  He  has  won  out  and  now  stands  ready 
to  show  us  the  way.  We  listen  to  every  word.  The 
lecture  is  short,  sharp,  apposite,  a  model  of  all  a 
lecture  should  be,  stripped  to  the  bare  bones  of  fun- 
damental truth,  pared  clean  of  every  redundant  word. 
As  the  clock  strikes  three  he  claps  his  hands  to  rid 
them  of  chalk,  pauses  for  a  moment  to  answer  perti- 
nent questions,  and  vanishes  into  his  office  once  more. 

Most  of  us  go  home. 

The  author  now  has  an  assignation  with  a  lady, 
and  the  reader  who  has  been  patiently  waiting  for 
some  sort  of  literary  allusions  in  a  preface  to  a  volume 
of  literary  essays,  is  about  to  be  gratified.  The  scene 
changes  from  the  vulgar  uproar  of  Aldgate  to  a  flat 
in  Chelsea.  Hurrying  through  Houndsditch,  across 
Leadenhall  Street  and  up  St.  Mary  Axe,  the  author 
discovers  the  right 'bus  in  Broad  Street  about  to  start. 
They  are  filling  the  radiator  with  water  and  the  con- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION    xxvii 

ductor  is  intoning  a  mysterious  incantation  which 
resolves  itself  into  "Benk!  Oobun,Benk!  Piccadilly, 
'Yde  Pawky  Sloon  Stree',  Sloon  Square,  Kings  Road, 
Chelsea  an  Walham  Green.  Here  y '  are,  lidy. "  With 
long  practice  he  can  make  the  vowels  reverberate 
above  the  roar  of  the  traffic.  The  words  Benk  and 
Pazvk  come  from  his  diaphragm  in  sullen  booms. 
To  listen  to  him  is  a  lesson  in  prosody.  He  enjoys 
doing  it.  He  is  an  artist.  He  extracts  the  uttermost 
from  his  material,  which  is  the  mark  of  the  supreme 
artist.  He  unbends  when  he  comes  up  to  collect  the 
fares  from  the  author  and  a  lady  who  is  probably  re- 
turning to  Turnham  Green  after  a  visit  to  her  married 
daughter  at  Islington,  and  he  leans  over  the  author's 
shoulder  to  scan  the  racing  news  in  the  Stop  Press 
Column,  a  courtesy  as  little  likely  to  be  withheld  in 
London  as  a  light  for  a  cigarette  in  Alexandria. 
"Hm!"  he  murmurs,  stoically.  "Jes'  fancy!  An' 
I  had  'im  backed  for  a  place,  too.  That's  the  larst 
money  I  lose  on  that  stable."  He  clatters  down  again 
and  one  hears  his  voice  lifted  once  more  as  he  rumbles: 
"Benk — Ooborn  Benk!"  with  diaphragmatic  in- 
tensity. 

To  know  London  from  the  top  of  a  'bus  is  no  doubt 
a  liberal  education,  but  it  may  be  questioned  whether 
the  tuition  is  as  extensive  and  peculiar  with  a  gasoline- 
driven  vehicle  as  with  the  old  horse-hauled  affairs 


xxviii      PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

that  took  all  day  to  jungle  along  from  the  North  Pole 
Inn  at  Wormwood  Scrubbs  to  the  Mile  End  Road, 
or  from  the  Angel  at  Islington  to  Roehampton. 
Almost  before  the  author  has  digested  a  leading  ar- 
ticle dealing  with  the  Venezuelan  Question  the  'bus 
roars  down  Sloan  Street,  shoots  across  the  Square, 
and  draws  up  just  where  a  few  people  are  already 
collecting  by  the  pit-doors  of  the  Court  Theatre  for 
the  evening  performance  of  "Man  and  Superman." 
This  being  the  end  of  a  stage,  if  the  pleasantry  may 
be  pardoned,  the  author  descends  and  walks  onward 
to  his  destination,  which  is  a  flat  down  by  the 
River. 

There  are  certain  thoroughfares  in  London  which 
have  always  avoided  any  suspicion  of  respectable 
regularity  either  in  their  reputation  or  their  archi- 
tecture. The  dead  monotony  of  Woburn  or  Eaton 
Square,  for  example,  the  massive  austerity  of  the 
Cromwell  Road,  and  the  cliff-like  cornices  of  Victoria 
Street,  are  the  antithesis  of  the  extraordinary  variety 
to  be  found  in  Park  Lane,  High  Street  Kensington, 
Maida  Vale  and  Cheyne  Walk.  This  last  reveals, 
between  Blantyre  and  Tite  streets,  the  whole  social 
order  of  England  and  the  most  disconcerting  divari- 
cations of  design.  In  it  meet  democracy,  plutocracy, 
and  aristocracy,  artist  and  artisan,  trade  and  tradi- 
tion, philosophy  and  philistinism,  publicans  and 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION      xxix 

publicists,  connoisseurs  and  confidence  men,  sin  and 
sincerity.  It  is  not  proposed  to  introduce  the  reader 
to  the  whole  of  this  goodly  company.  The  Balzac 
of  Chelsea  still  tarries  in  obscurity.  By  some  amaz- 
ing oversight  this  street,  which  has  sheltered  more 
artists  and  authors  than  any  other  thoroughfare  in 
the  world,  seems  to  have  evaded  their  capture.  Chel- 
sea is  a  cosmos.  Cheyne  Walk  is  a  world,  a  world 
abandoned  by  genius  to  the  cheap  purveyors  of 
second-hand  clap-trap  and  imitators  of  original  minds. 

Let  us  go  upstairs. 

Miss  Flaherty  is  one  of  those  women  who  appear 
from  time  to  time  in  the  newspaper  world  and  who 
seem  to  embody  in  their  own  personalities  the  essen- 
tial differences  between  journalism  and  literature. 
Their  equipment  is  trivial  and  their  industry  colossal. 
In  a  literary  sense  they  are  so  prolific  that  they  do 
not  beget;  they  spawn.  They  present  a  marvellous 
combination  of  unquenchable  enthusiasm  and  slov- 
enly inaccuracy.  They  needs  must  love  the  highest 
when  they  see  it,  but  they  are  congenitally  incapable 
of  describing  it  correctly.  Their  conception  of  art 
consists  of  writing  a  book  describing  their  own  sexual 
impulses.  This  is  frequently  so  ungrammatical  and 
obscure  that  even  publishers'  readers  balk  at  it,  and 
it  goes  the  rounds.  In  the  meanwhile,  they  produce 
in  incredible  quantity  of  daily  and  weekly  matter  for 


xxx       PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

the  press.  They  wheedle  commissions  out  of  male 
editors  by  appealing  to  their  sex,  and  write  sprightly 
articles  on  Bachelor  Girls  and  their  Ideals,  and  the 
Economic  Independence  of  the  Married  Woman. 
They  become  hysterically  lachrymose,  in  print,  over 
a  romantic  love  affair,  and  relapse  into  sordid  in- 
trigues on  the  sly.  They  demand  political  power 
without  intending  for  a  single  moment  to  assume 
political  responsibility.  Their  days  are  about  equally 
divided  between  catching  a  husband  and  achieving 
what  they  describe  as  "a  scoop." 

To  all  this  Miss  Flaherty  adds  an  unusual  faculty 
for  spectacular  antics.  She  has  dressed  in  a  red 
sweater  and  plied  her  trade,  for  a  day,  as  a  shoe-shine 
boy.  She  has  dressed  in  a  green  cloak  and  sold  sham- 
rock on  St.  Patrick's  day.  She  has  dressed  in  rags 
and  sung  in  the  streets  for  charity.  She  has  hired 
a  van  and  ridden  about  the  suburbs  pretending  to 
sell  domestic  articles.  She  has  attended  revival 
meetings  and  thrown  herself  in  a  spasm  of  ecstasy 
upon  what  she  calls  the  mercy-seat.  She  has  .  .  . 

But  the  author  is  not  absolutely  sure  whether  she 
has  .  .  .  after  all.  He  is  of  the  opinion  that,  like 
most  English  women,  she  has  no  talent  for  that  sort 
of  thing.  Like  most  young  women  who  babble  of 
emancipation  she  has  an  unsuspected  aptitude  for 
domesticity.  She  makes  tea  far  better  than  she 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION       xxxi 

writes  articles.  She  is,  under  a  ridiculous  assump- 
tion of  slangy  modernity,  oppressively  conventional. 

However,  the  author's  immediate  concern  is  not 
with  Miss  Flaherty's  destiny  at  all,  but  with  his 
manuscript  which  she  has  been  commissioned  to  place 
with  a  publisher.  A  writer  of  dime  novels,  on  being 
consulted  as  to  the  way  to  get  a  book  published,  said 
he  didn't  know,  never  having  had  a  book  to  publish 
save  in  weekly  serial  numbers;  and  that,  he  hastened 
to  observe,  was  quite  another  story.  And  then 
suddenly  remarked,  slapping  his  thigh  and  reaching 
for  the  makings  of  a  fresh  cigarette:  "Why  not  try 
Imogene  Flaherty?  She's  anxious  to  start  in  as 
author's  agent."  The  author  had  no  objections  to 
raise  beyond  the  fact  that  he  disliked  doing  business 
with  women  and  was  afraid  of  anybody  named  Imo- 
gene. The  dime-novelist  shook  his  head  and  said 
women  in  business  and  journalism  had  come  to  stay. 
And  seriously,  Miss  Flaherty  might  easily  be  of  im- 
mense assistance  to  the  author.  "Very  nice  girl,  too 
— h-m — hm!"  This  reminiscently.  "Very  decent 
little  woman.  Go  and  see  her — take  my  card — down 
in  Cheyne  Walk.  She  had  a  flat  down  there  near 
Church  Street.  H-m.  Yes." 

So  it  happened.  And  the  result  had  been  an  ex- 
plosion. Miss  Flaherty  had  accepted  the  commissicn 
and  had  read  the  manuscript  and  had,  in  common 


xxxii      PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

parlance,  gone  up  in  the  air.  Her  enthusiasm  liter- 
ally knew  no  bounds.  She  did  not  actually  foam  at 
the  mouth,  but  she  displayed  all  the  symptoms  of 
advanced  literary  hysteria.  Now  there  is  this  to  be 
said  for  the  sea — it  may  not  furnish  one  with  univer- 
sal judgments  about  women  but  it  does  provide 
the  solitude  and  austere  discipline  which  enable  a 
man  to  coordinate  his  hitherto  chaotic  ideas  about 
them.  And  women,  if  they  only  knew  how  they 
appear  to  the  imagination  of  men  on  the  rolling 
waters,  would  undoubtedly  modify  their  own  concep- 
tions of  life,  and  possibly  profit  by  the  change. 
Imogene,  however,  had  no  such  moment  of  illumina- 
tion. She  lived  in  an  enchanted  world  of  imitation 
emotion  and  something  in  the  author's  manuscript 
had  set  her  off,  had  appealed  to  her  rudimentary  no- 
tions of  fine  writing,  and  engendered  a  flame  of  en- 
thusiasm. It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  she  be- 
lieved in  that  manuscript  much  more  than  the  author 
did.  That  is  the  correct  attitude  for  a  successful 
agent.  Imogene  did  not  "push"  the  book,  as  sales- 
men say,  so  much  as  herald  it.  She  entered  publish- 
ers' offices  like  a  prophetess  or  one  of  the  seraphim, 
panoplied  in  shining  plumage,  blinding  the  poor 
human  eyes  with  beams  of  heavenly  radiance,  the 
marvellous  manuscript,  like  a  roll  of  lost  gospels,  held 
out  before  her.  She  blew  a  blast  on  her  trumpet 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION    xxxiii 

and  the  doors  of  the  publishers'  readers  swung  wide. 
No  knowledge  of  English  literature  prevented  her 
from  uttering  her  solemn  conviction  that  here  was 
the  greatest  book  since  Geoffrey  Chaucer  laid  down 
his  pen.  With  intrepid  resource  she  warned  the 
hesitating  publisher  that  he  would  have  none  save 
himself  to  blame  if  he  missed  this  chance  of  immortal- 
izing his  house,  and  eventually  a  publisher  was  dis- 
covered who  was  willing  to  issue  the  book  at  the 
author's  expense.  All  this,  let  it  be  said  with  regret, 
did  not  bring  a  blush  to  the  author's  sea-tanned 
cheek.  On  the  contrary,  he  cherished  a  secret  appre- 
hension that  Imogene  had  gone  mad. 

The  one  fly  in  the  ointment  at  this  juncture  was  the 
author's  unmannerly  attitude  towards  publishers  who 
issued  books  at  the  writer's  expense.  He  went  so 
far  as  to  characterize  them  as  crooks  and  declined  to 
have  anything  to  do  with  them.  He  had  been  writ- 
ing for  a  good  many  years  of  apprenticeship  and  had 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  a  man  might  get  along 
in  decent  comfort  all  his  life  without  publishing  any- 
thing at  all,  if  fate  so  ordered  it;  and  the  suggestion 
that  he  pay  away  his  hoarded  sea-wages  just  to  have 
his  name  on  a  book,  clouded  a  naturally  sunny  tem- 
per for  some  time. 

Here,  however,  sitting  at  tea  in  the  intensely  artis- 
tic flat  on  the  third  floor  over  a  grocery-store,  and 


xxxiv     PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

looking  out  upon  the  River  and  the  warehouses  of 
the  Surrey  Side,  the  author  is  rapturously  apprised 
that  the  book  is  as  good  as  sold.  A  publisher's 
reader,  a  representative  of  an  important  house,  has 
declared  that  the  book  has  distinction.  This  is  a 
true  record,  in  the  main,  and  the  author  is  obliged  to 
confess,  thirteen  years  later,  that  he  fell  for  this. 
In  his  simplicity  he  thought  it  a  fine  thing  to  have 
distinction.  And  this  is  true.  It  is  a  fine  thing, 
but  the  fineness  of  the  bloom  is  soon  licked  off  by 
the  busy  tongues  of  the  Imogenes  and  their  masculine 
counterparts.  The  author  did  not  see  this  so  clearly 
at  the  time.  He  felt  as  a  cat  feels  when  stroked. 
The  patrons  of  distinction  were  also  in  a  position  to 
make  a  cash  offer  for  the  copyright.  In  those  days, 
when  fifty  dollars  a  month  was  considered  adequate 
remuneration  for  his  services  at  sea,  the  author  had 
modest  notions  about  cash  offers.  He  treated  the 
matter  in  a  sporting  spirit  and  closed. 

But  it  was  not  consummated  in  a  word  and  with 
the  gesture  of  signing  one's  name.  Things  are  not 
done  that  way  when  dealing  with  Imogenes.  One 
has  to  negotiate  a  continent  of  emotional  hill-climbing 
and  an  ocean  of  talk.  A  sea-faring  person,  schooled 
to  deal  with  men  and  things  with  an  economy  of 
effort,  is  moved  to  amazement  before  the  spectacle 
of  a  "bachelor  girl"  in  action.  One  assumes,  of 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION      xxxv 

course,  that  she  intends  to  remain  a  "bachelor  girl." 
There  is  the  solemn  initiation  into  the  ranks  of  her 
pals.  Palship,  as  she  calls  it,  is  something  quite 
different  from  friendship,  and  to  a  man  of  normal  in- 
stincts this  is  an  alarming  proposition.  It  is  cer- 
tainly far  more  exhausting  than  an  intrigue  and  far 
less  interesting  than  a  rationally  controlled  friendship 
with  a  person  of  the  same  sex.  And  here  it  is  perti- 
nent to  put  forward  what  the  author  conceives  to  be 
the  fundamental  trouble  with  the  Imogenes  of  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  It  is  pertinent  because  he  was, 
at  the  time  of  writing  this  book,  under  the  influence 
of  a  very  potent  and  inspiring  friendship  for  a  man 
now  dead,  a  friendship  which  moulded  his  ideas  and 
inspired  him  to  hammer  out  for  himself  a  characteris- 
tic philosophy  of  life.  And  one  of  the  most  important 
determinations  of  that  philosophy  deals  with  the 
common  errors  concerning  friendship  and  love.  The 
mistake  of  the  bachelor  girl  and  her  prototypes  lies 
in  their  failure  to  recognize  the  principle  of  sex  as 
universal.  It  is  not  so  much  that  men  and  women 
cannot  meet  without  the  problem  of  sex  arising 
between  them  as  that  no  two  human  beings  can  have 
any  interchange  of  thoughts  at  all  without  involving 
each  other  in  a  complex  of  which  masculine  and  femi- 
nine are  the  opposite  poles.  The  most  fascinating 
of  all  friendships  are  those  in  which  the  protagonists 


xxxvi     PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

alternate,  each  one,  owing  to  freshly  revealed  depths 
or  shallows  in  his  character,  assuming  the  masculine 
or  feminine  role.  The  Latin  recognises  this  by  in- 
stinct. Just  as  his  nouns  are  always  either  masculine 
or  feminine,  so  are  his  ideas.  And  his  women,  who 
have  never  heard  of  "bachelor  girls"  or  "palship," 
have  achieved  with  consummate  skill  all  and  more 
than  the  Imogenes  have  ever  imagined.  Any  one 
who  has  ever  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  such  women 
will  recall  that  subtle  aroma  of  sex  which  informs  the 
whole  affair.  The  coarse-grained  northerner  is  prone 
to  attribute  the  abundant  vitality,  the  exquisite 
graces  of  body  and  mind  to  a  deftly  concealed  vam- 
pirism or  sensuality.  Nothing  is  further  from  the 
truth.  If  you  can  play  up  to  it,  if  your  emotions  and 
instincts  are  under  the  control  of  a  traditional  and 
finely  tempered  will,  a  notable  experience  is  yours. 
Friendship,  in  fact,  is  the  divinity  whose  name  must 
not  be  uttered  or  he  will  vanish.  She  will  not  in- 
form you,  as  Imogene  does,  that  you  are  not  in  love 
with  her  and  she  is  not  in  love  with  you  and  therefore 
a  palship  is  under  way.  On  the  contrary,  she  will 
never  let  you  forget  that  love  is  a  possibility  always 
just  out  of  sight,  where  it  will  always  remain.  She  is 
economically  independent  because  men  cannot  do 
without  her.  She  has  more  rights  than  the  Imogenes 
will  gain  in  a  thousand  years;  and  she  is,  moreover, 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION     xxxvii 

something  that  men  would  strive  to  preserve  in  a 
world-cataclysm,  whereas  no  one  would  give  Imogene 
a  single  panic  thought. 

Imogene,  however,  has  no  inkling  of  this.  She  is 
under  the  impression  that  she  is  one  of  the  world's 
cosmic  forces.  In  the  rag-bag  of  her  brain  whence 
she  fishes  out  the  innumerable  formless  and  gaudy- 
coloured  pilferings  from  which  she  fashions  her 
"special  articles,"  she  cherishes  an  extraordinary 
illusion  that  she  is  a  sort  of  modern  Hypatia.  She 
says  Aspasia,  but  that  is  only  because  she  has  con- 
fused Kingsley's  heroine  with  Pericles'  mistress. 
She  talks  of  "  mating  with  an  affinity  "  of  "  influencing 
the  lives  of  the  men  who  do  things."  She  is  very 
worried  about  the  men  who  do  things.  It  is  a  proof 
of  her  conventional  and  Victorian  mentality  that  she 
imagines  men  who  do  things  are  inspired  to  do  them 
by  women;  whereas  it  is  rather  the  other  way  round, 
the  men  who  do  things  having  to  avoid  the  majority 
of  women  as  they  would  cholera  morbus,  if  they  are 
ever  to  get  anything  done. 

Springing  up  on  the  impulse  of  this  thought  the 
author  makes  his  excuses  to  the  assembled  guests  and 
descends  the  dark  stairway  to  the  street.  To  tell  the 
truth,  these  glimpses  into  the  society  of  literary  folk 
do  not  inspire  in  his  bosom  any  frantic  anxiety  to 
abandon  his  own  way  of  life,  He  had  a  furtive  and 


xxxviii     PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

foolish  notion  that  these  people  are  of  no  importance 
whatever.  These  coteries,  these  at-homes,  and  flat 
philosophies  are  not  the  real  thing.  It  sounds  un- 
social and  unconventional,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  a  ques- 
tion so  far  unsettled  in  the  author's  mind  whether 
any  genuine  artist  loves  his  fellows  well  enough  to 
co-habit  with  them  on  a  literary  basis.  For  some 
mysterious  reason  the  real  men,  the  original  living 
forces  in  literature,  do  not  frequent  the  salons  of  the 
Imogenes.  They  are  more  likely  to  be  found  in  the 
private  bars  of  taverns  in  the  King's  Road,  or  walking 
along  lonely  roads  in  Essex  and  Surrey.  Indeed, 
they  may  be  preoccupied  with  problems  quite  foreign 
to  the  immediate  business  of  literary  conversation. 
They  may  be  building  bridges,  or  sailing  ships,  or 
governing  principalities.  They  are  unrecognised  for 
the  most  part.  The  fact  is  they  are  romantic,  and 
it  is  the  hall-mark  of  the  true  romantic  to  do  what 
other  men  dream  of,  and  say  nothing  about  it. 

The  motives  of  the  author,  however,  in  deserting 
the  flat  in  Chelsea,  were  not  entirely  due  to  dreams  of 
lofty  achievement,  but  to  the  stern  necessity  to  read 
voraciouslyon  the  subject  of  Heatfor  hisexamination. 
And  one  of  the  dominating  changes  which  he  dis- 
covers in  himself  after  the  passage  of  thirteen  years 
is  a  sad  falling  off  in  brain-power.  He  is  no  longer 
able  to  read  voraciously  on  the  subject  of  Heat  and 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION     xxxix 

Heat-engines.  His  technical  library  remains  packed 
with  grim  neatness  in  his  cabin  book-case.  When 
his  juniors  bring  problems  involving  a  quadratic 
equation  he  is  stricken  with  a  horrible  fear  lest  the 
answer  won't  come  out.  He  looks  through  his  old 
examination  papers  and  echoes  Swift's  melancholy 
sigh  "Gad!  What  a  genius  I  had  when  I  wrote  all 
that!"  Most  professional  men,  one  is  bound  to 
suppose,  become  aware  at  periods  of  the  gradual 
ossification  of  their  intellects.  And  it  is  not  always 
easy  to  retain  a  full  consciousness  of  the  compensat- 
ing advantages  of  seniority  in  the  face  of  this  positive 
degeneration.  One  begins  to  watch  carefully  for 
errors  where  one  used  to  go  pounding  to  a  finish  with 
a  full-blooded  rush.  One  has  a  feeling  of  being  over- 
taken; the  young  people  of  the  next  decade  can  be 
heard  not  far  behind,  and  they  seem  to  be  offensively 
successful  in  business,  in  friendship,  and  in  love.  One 
has  ceased  to  be  interesting  to  the  women  of  thirty 
and  the  men  of  forty.  The  achievement  of  years 
shrinks  to  depressing  dimensions,  and  the  real  test  is 
on.  One  becomes  uncomfortably  aware  of  the  shrewd 
poke  of  Degas  that  "any  one  can  have  talent  at 
twenty-five.  The  great  thing  is  to  have  talent  at 
forty." 

The  reader  is  invited  to  assume,  therefore,  that 
the  author,  at  twenty-five,  was  sufficiently  talented 


xl  PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

and  ambitious  to  read  voraciously  on  Heat  and  a 
great  many  other  subjects.  That  he  did  so  he  calls 
on  Mrs.  Honeyball  to  witness,  since  that  lady  was 
really  concerned  for  his  health  and  urged  him  not  to 
work  too  hard  "for  fear  of  a  break-down."  There 
was  never  any  danger  of  a  break-down,  however. 
London  was  outside  that  window  with  1472  carved 
below  it,  and  at  the  first  warning  of  fatigue  the  author 
would  take  hat  and  stick  and  fare  forth  in  search  of 
recreation  and  adventure.  He  would  apologize  to 
Mrs.  Honeyball  and  her  friends  gathered  in  the  little 
room  below,  where  they  were  discussing  what  Mr. 
Honeyball  described  as  "Christian  Work."  Mr. 
Honeyball  used  to  bring  out  this  phrase  with  extraor- 
dinary vigour  and  emphasis,  as  though  the  very 
enunciation  were  a  blow  to  the  designs  of  Satan. 
The  author  heard,  during  a  later  voyage,  that  the 
Honeyballs  did  eventually  give  up  the  mundane  job 
of  supervising  apartments  and  retired  to  a  quiet  sea- 
side town  where  they  devoted  themselves  entirely  to 
"Christian  Work." 

It  was  on  one  of  these  evening  strolls  that  the 
author  became  on  speaking  terms  with  the  girl  who 
ate  a  bun  and  a  glass  of  milk  for  breakfast  every  morn- 
ing. It  is  very  easy  to  get  acquainted  with  a  virtuous 
girl  in  England — so  easy  that  the  foreigner  is  fre- 
quently bewildered  or  inclined  to  be  suspicious  of  the 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION         xli 

virtue.  It  is  a  facility  difficult  to  reconcile  with  our 
heavily  advertised  frigidity,  our  disconcerting  habit 
of  addressing  a  stranger  as  though  some  invisible  third 
person  (an  enemy)  just  behind  him  were  the  object  of 
our  dignified  disapproval.  It  may  be  explained  by 
the  fact  that,  from  the  middle  classes  downward,  and 
excluding  the  swarms  of  immigrants  in  the  large  cities, 
we  are  a  very  old  race,  with  a  comprehensive  knowl- 
edge of  our  own  mentalities.  One  finds  blond,  blue- 
eyed  Saxon  children  in  East  Anglia,  and  there  are 
black-haired,  brown-skinned  people  in  the  West 
Country  who  have  had  no  foreign  admixture  to  their 
Phoenician  blood  since  the  Norman  Conquest.  This 
makes  for  a  certain  solidarity  of  sentiment  and  a 
corresponding  freedom  of  intercourse. 

Not  that  Mabel  would  understand  any  of  this  if 
she  heard  it.  She  has  a  robust  and  coarse-textured 
mind  curiously  contrasted  with  her  pale,  delicate 
features  and  sombre  black  eyes.  She  was  one  of 
those  people  who  seem  suddenly  to  transmute  them- 
selves into  totally  different  beings  the  moment  one 
speaks  to  them.  As  the  author  did  one  evening, 
after  peering  absently  through  the  window  of  a  candy- 
store  down  near  the  railroad  arch  below  Charing 
Cross,  and  seeing  her  sitting  pensive  behind  the 
stacks  of  merchandise.  She  was  very  glad  to  see  a 
familiar  face  and  recognised  the  claim  of  the  break- 


xlii        PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

fast-hour  with  a  tolerant  smile  and  a  cheerful  nod. 
It  is  very  easy,  while  talking  to  Mabel,  to  understand 
why  there  is  no  native  opera  in  England,  and  a  very 
powerful  native  literature.  Opera  can  only  prosper 
where  the  emotional  strain  between  the  sexes  is  so 
heavy  that  it  must  be  relieved  by  song  and  gesture. 
We  have  nothing  of  that  in  England.  Women,  more 
even  than  men,  distrust  themselves  and  eschew  the 
outward  trappings  of  romance.  But  this  makes  for 
character,  so  that  our  friends  and  relatives  appear  to 
us  like  the  men  and  women  in  novels.  Mabel  was 
like  that.  She  walked  in  and  out  of  half  a  dozen 
books  which  the  author  had  recently  read.  And  her 
importance  in  this  preface  lies  in  the  illumination  she 
shed  upon  this  same  subject  of  literature.  The  author 
at  that  time,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  following  pages, 
was  addicted  to  fine  writing  and  he  held  the  view 
that  literature  was  for  the  cultured  and  made  no 
direct  appeal  to  the  masses.  Mabel  unconsciously 
showed  that  this  was  a  mistaken  view.  Mabel  was 
as  chock  full  of  literature  as  a  Russian  novel.  She 
had  adventures  everywhere.  The  author  coming 
in  and  talking  to  her,  after  breakfasting  in  the  same 
coffee-room,  was  an  adventure.  It  would  make  a 
story,  she  observed  with  naive  candour.  Only  the 
other  night,  she  remarked,  a  strange  gentleman 
came,  a  foreigner  of  some  sort,  and  asked  for  choco- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION        xliii 

lates.  A  very  entertaining  gentleman  with  a  bag, 
which  he  asked  her  to  keep.  No  fear,  she  observed; 
no  bombs  or  things  in  her  shop — take  it  to  the  cloak- 
room in  the  station.  Well,  he  must  have  done  so, 
for  they  got  it  out  of  there  after  his  arrest.  Here 
was  his  photograph  in  the  Sunday  paper.  Millions  of 
francs  he'd  stole.  Like  a  novel,  wasn't  it?  The 
author  said  it  was,  very,  and  begged  for  more.  He 
said  she  ought  to  write  them  down.  Mabel  looked 
grave  at  this  and  said  she  had  a  fellow  . 
splendid  education  he  had  had.  Was  in  the  Pruden- 
tial. Her  voice  grew  low  and  hesitating.  He  was 
going  to  give  it  up !  Give  up  the  Prudential  ?  But 
that  was  a  job  for  life,  wasn't  it  ?  Ah,  but  he  had  it 
in  him.  ...  It  appeared  that  he  had  won  five 
pounds  for  a  story.  It  was  wonderful  the  way  he 
wrote  them  off.  In  his  spare  time.  And  poetry. 
He  was  really  a  poet,  but  poetry  didn't  pay,  the 
author  was  given  to  understand.  So  he  wrote  stories. 
Some  people  made  thousands  a  year. 

This  was  all  very  well  from  Mabel's  point  of  view, 
but  the  author  did  not  want  to  go  into  the  vexed  ques- 
tion of  royalties.  He  wanted,  on  the  contrary,  to 
know  Mabel's  feelings  towards  the  coming  Maupas- 
sant of  North  London.  Did  she  love  him  ?  Or  rather, 
to  put  the  matter  in  another  way,  did  he  love  her? 
Was  he  permitted  that  supreme  privilege?  Well, 


xliv        PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

they  had  been  going  round  together,  on  and  off,  this 
nine  months  now.  As  for  being  engaged  ...  he 
only  got  two  pound  a  week  as  yet,  remember.  Yes, 
that  was  why  she  wanted  him  to  go  in  for  this  writing 
and  make  a  hit.  She'd  take  it  on  and  make  ends 
meet  somehow,  if  he  did  that.  She  could  help  him. 
He  said  she  had  some  good  ideas,  only  they  wanted 
working  out.  And  here  was  a  secret — he'd  written 
a  play!  Mabel  leaned  over  the  candy  jars  and  whis- 
pered this  dreadful  thing  in  the  author's  ear.  A 
friend  of  theirs  had  seen  it — he  was  at  one  of  the 
theatres  in  the  electrical  department  and  knew  all 
the  stars — and  he  said  it  was  very  good  but  needed 
what  he  called  pulling  together!  If  only  a  reliable 
person  in  the  play-writing  line  could  be  found  to  do 
this  pulling  together,  there  might  be  a  fortune  in  it. 
The  reader  may  be  disturbed  at  Mabel's  insistence 
upon  the  financial  possibilities  of  literature,  but  in 
this  she  was  only  a  child  of  her  time.  The  point 
worthy  of  note  is  not  her  rapacity  but  the  dexterity 
with  which  she  utilized  literature  to  further  her 
ambition.  She  was  identifying  herself  with  literature 
and  so  fortifying  her  position.  She  was  really  far 
better  fitted  to  be  the  wife  of  a  Hedonist  than  Imo- 
gene.  And  she  could  appreciate  poetry  addressed 
to  herself.  The  author  eventually  saw  some  of  it 
for  a  moment,  written  on  sermon  paper,  but  the 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION       xlv 

stanzas  shall  remain  forever  vibrating  in  his  own 
bosom.  She  is  memorable  to  the  author,  moreover, 
in  that  she  brought  home  to  him  for  the  first  time 
the  startling  fact  that  every  such  woman  is,  in  a  sense, 
an  adventuress.  She  never  knows  what  will  happen 
next.  She  is  in  the  grip  of  incalculable  forces.  She 
has  to  work  with  feverish  haste  to  make  herself  secure 
and  to  use  even  such  bizarre  instruments  as  literature 
in  the  pursuit  of  safety.  Back  in  his  tiny  chambers 
over  the  old  Gate  of  Cliffords  Inn,  the  author  medi- 
tated darkly  upon  that  play  that  only  required 
"pulling  together"  to  make  it  the  nucleus  of  a  for- 
tune. Evidently,  he  reflected,  there  were  determined 
characters  about,  aided  and  inspired  by  equally  de- 
termined young  women,  battering  upon  the  gates  of 
Fame,  and  he  felt  his  own  chances  of  success  against 
such  rivals  were  frail  indeed.  So  he  went  to  sea 
again. 

Here,  in  one  short  sentence,  is  the  gist  of  this  book, 
that  the  sea  is  a  way  of  escape  from  the  intolerable 
burden  of  life.  A  cynic  once  described  it  as  having 
all  the  advantages  of  suicide  without  any  of  its  in- 
conveniences. To  the  author  it  was  more  than  that. 
It  was  the  means  of  finding  himself  in  the  world,  a 
medium  in  which  he  could  work  out  the  dreams 
which  beset  him  and  which  were  the  basis  of  future 
writings,  But  ever  at  the  back  of  the  mind  will  there 


xlvi        PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

be  the  craving  to  get  out  beyond  the  bar,  to  see  the 
hard,  bright  glitter  of  impersonal  land-lights  die 
suddenly  in  the  fresh  gusts,  and  to  leave  behind  the 
importunate  demands  of  business,  of  friendship,  and 
of  love. 

"  From  too  much  love  of  living 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free." 

The  words  hummed  in  his  brain  as  he  ascended  the 
stone  stairs  of  the  gaunt  building  in  Mark  Lane  to 
face  the  final  ordeal  of  a  viva  voce  examination  before 
the  Head  Examiner.  There  had  been  a  hurried  con- 
sultation in  whispers  in  the  great  examination  room. 
In  a  far  corner  was  a  glazed,  portioned-off  space  where 
sat  the  regular  examiner  with  a  perspiring  candidate 
in  front  of  him,  tongue-tied  and  weary.  And  there 
were  a  dozen  more  waiting.  So  the  author  was  in- 
formed in  a  whisper  that  he  had  better  step  upstairs 
and  the  Head  Examiner  would  deal  with  him.  And 
settle  his  hash  quickly  enough,  thought  the  author 
as  he  sprang  nimbly  up  behind  the  assistant  examiner. 
He  found  himself  in  a  large,  imposing  office  where  at 
an  immense  desk  sat  a  man  with  a  trim  beard,  rapidly 
scanning  a  mass  of  papers.  The  author  immediately 
became  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  this  per- 
son, for  he  bore  an  extraordinary  resemblance  to 
George  Meredith.  The  head  in  profile  was  like  a 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION     xlvii 

Sicilian  antique,  with  the  clear-cut  candour  of  a 
cameo.  Memories  of  Lord  Ormont  and  His  Aminta 
crowded  upon  the  waiting  victim  and  he  found  him- 
self almost  hysterical  with  curiosity  as  to  what  would 
happen  if  he  claimed  to  be  a  distant  connection  of 
Sir  Willoughby  Patterne,  but  without  the  historic  leg. 
What  if  he  led  the  conversation  gently  towards  Rich- 
ard Feverel's  perfect  love-story,  or  alluded  to  a  lady 
with  whom  he  will  always  remain  in  love — Diana  of 
the  Crossways  ?  But  nothing  of  the  sort  happened. 
The  author  was  nodded  curtly  to  a  seat,  the  assistant 
examiner  chose  another  chair  close  by,  cleared  his 
throat,  shot  his  cuffs,  and  pulled  up  the  knees  of  his 
trousers.  The  Head  Examiner,  without  looking  up 
or  desisting  from  his  rapid  writing,  began  to  express 
his  deep  regret  that  the  author  apparently  preferred 
to  work  an  evaporator  under  a  pressure  instead  of  a 
vacuum.  There  might  possibly  be  some  reason  for 
this  which  he,  the  Examiner,  had  overlooked,  and  he 
would  appreciate  it  if  the  author  could  so  far  unbend 
as  to  outline  his  experience  in  this  business.  Where- 
upon the  Head  Examiner  proceeded  with  his  writing 
and  left  the  author,  in  a  state  of  coma,  facing  an 
expectant  assistant  examiner,  who  resembled  some 
predatory  bird  only  waiting  for  life  to  be  extinct  be- 
fore falling  upon  the  victim.  Somewhat  to  his  own 
surprise,  however,  the  victim  showed  signs  of  return- 


xlviii     PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

ing  animation,  and  began  to  utter  strange,  semi- 
articulate  noises.  The  Head  Examiner  wrote  on 
with  increasing  speed;  the  assistant  examiner,  some- 
what disappointed,  still  preserved  an  expectant  air. 
The  victim  became  more  active,  and  astounded  him- 
self by  carrying  the  war  into  the  enemy's  camp.  He 
announced  himself  as  an  adherent  of  the  pressure 
method.  He  became  eloquent,  describing  his  tribu- 
lations working  an  evaporator  on  a  vacuum.  But 
the  aim  of  examiners  apparently  is  not  to  hear  what 
one  knows  but  to  reveal  to  a  shocked  world  what 
one  does  not  know.  The  subject  was  immediately 
changed  to  the  advantages  of  multi-polar  generators 
and  the  ethics  of  the  single-wire  system.  The  as- 
sistant examiner  reluctantly  resigned  any  thoughts 
of  an  immediate  banquet  upon  the  author's  remains 
and  assumed  an  attitude  of  charitable  tolerance, 
much  as  one  watches  an  insect's  valorous  struggles 
to  get  out  of  the  molasses.  The  Head  Examiner 
from  time  to  time  interjected  a  short,  sharp  question, 
like  a  lancet  into  the  discussion,  but  without  looking 
up  or  ceasing  to  write  with  extreme  rapidity.  And 
as  time  went  on  and  the  whole  range  of  knowledge 
was  gone  over  in  the  attempt  to  destroy  him,  the 
author  began  to  wonder  whether  these  men  thought 
he  had,  like  Lord  Bacon,  taken  all  knowledge  for  his 
province,  whether  tramp  steamers  carried  a  crew  of 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION       xlix 

technical  pundits,  and  whether  there  would  be  so 
many  literary  men  and  women  about  if  they  had  to 
go  through  this  sort  of  thing.  And  the  thought  of 
literature  brought  back  George  Meredith  to  mind 
again,  only  to  be  dismissed.  It  was  much  more  like 
being  examined  by  Anthony  Trollope  or  Arnold  Ben- 
nett, the  author  decided,  than  by  Meredith.  Ap- 
pearances are  misleading.  The  thin,  classical  face 
never  roused  from  its  down-cast  repose  and  implaca- 
ble attention.  But  at  long  last  the  assistant  examiner 
shuffled  his  papers  and  remained  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  though  regretfully  admitting  that  the  vic- 
tim was,  within  bounds,  omniscient,  and  could  not 
be  decently  tortured  any  longer.  As  an  after  thought, 
however,  and  glancing  at  the  Head  Examiner  as 
he  did  so,  he  enquired  whether  the  author  had  experi- 
enced any  break-downs,  accidents,  smashes. 

The  author  had.  It  was  a  subject  upon  which 
he  was  an  authority,  having  served  in  a  ship  twenty- 
five  years  old  with  rotten  boilers  and  perishing  frames. 
And  all  unwittingly  he  became  reminiscent  and 
drifted  into  the  story  of  a  gale  in  the  Bristol  Channel 
with  the  empty  ship  rolling  till  she  showed  her  bilge 
keels,  the  propeller  with  its  boss  awash  thrashing  the 
sea  with  lunatic  rage,  and  then  the  three  of  us  swaying 
and  sweating  on  the  boiler-tops,  a  broken  main- 
steam  pipe  lying  under  our  feet.  And  it  had  to  be 


1  PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION 

done,  for  the  tide  and  the  current  were  taking  us  up 
to  Lundy,  where  half-tide  rocks  would  soon  cook  our 
goose,  as  the  saying  is.  And  as  he  grew  absorbed  in 
the  tale  the  author  observed  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye  that  the  Head  Examiner's  pen  paused  and  then 
was  gently  laid  down,  a  new  expression  of  alertness, 
as  though  about  to  deliver  judgment,  came  over  the 
finely  cut  features.  And  presently,  as  it  was  ex- 
plained how  an  iron  collar  was  made  and  clamped 
about  the  broken  pipe,  and  long  bolts  made  to  pass 
into  the  solid  flanges  of  the  valve  below,  to  haul  the 
pipe  into  its  socket  and  hold  it  there  by  main  force 
until  we  could  get  in,  the  Head  Examiner  turned  in 
his  chair,  and  nodded  as  he  touched  his  beard  lightly 
with  one  finger.  It  was  about  four  in  the  morning 
when  the  job  was  finished,  the  author  recalled,  and 
he  came  up  on  to  the  wet  deck,  with  low  clouds  flying 
past  and  Lundy  an  ominous  shadow  behind,  while 
the  dawn  lifted  beyond  the  Welsh  Mountains  and  the 
jolly,  homely  lights  of  Swansea  shone  clear  ahead. 
And  as  he  paused  and  remarked  that  the  repair  proved 
to  be  effective,  he  saw  something  else  in  the  face  of 
the  man  watching  him,  something  not  seen  before, 
something  not  very  easy  to  describe.  But  it  may  be 
said  to  have  marked  another  step  in  his  career.  Call 
it  character,  and  the  perception  of  it.  Something, 
as  the  reader  will  see,  that  is  only  emerging  in  the 


PREFACE  TO  THE  1921  EDITION          li 

pages  of  this  book.  Something  harsh  and  strong- 
fibred,  nurtured  upon  coarse  food  and  the  inexorable 
discipline  of  the  sea.  Something  that  is  the  enemy  of 
sloth  and  lies  and  the  soft  languors  of  love.  Indeed, 
what  the  author  has  finally  to  say  after  all  may  be 
comprised  in  this — that  out  of  his  experience,  which 
has  been  to  a  certain  degree  varied,  he  has  come  to 
the  conviction  that  this  same  character,  the  achieve- 
ment and  acceptance  of  it,  stands  out  as  the  one  de- 
sirable and  indispensable  thing  in  the  world,  and 
neither  fame  nor  wealth  nor  love  can  furnish  any 
adequate  substitute  for  it. 

S.  S.  Turrialba,  August,  1920. 

WILLIAM  McFEE. 


PREFACE* 

As  I  sit,  this  hot  July  day,  by  my  window  on  the 
Walk,  while  the  two  streams,  of  traffic  and  of  Thames, 
drift  past  me,  I  think  of  the  man  who  was  my  friend, 
the  man  who  loved  this  scene  so  well. 

And  he  is  dead.  In  my  hand,  as  I  write,  lie  his 
last  written  words,  a  hasty  scribble  ere  the  steamer 
left  port  on  her  voyage  across  the  Atlantic.  He  is 
busy,  as  is  evident  by  the  greasy  thumb-mark  on  the 
corner.  He  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  his  work  to 
send  a  last  line  to  his  friend.  There  is  the  inevitable 
joke  at  the  expense  of  "his  friend  the  Mate,"  that 
individual  being  in  a  towering  passion  with  a  certain 
pig  which  had  escaped  from  his  enclosure.  This 
same  pig,  he  declares,  is  some  previous  First  Officer, 
who  had  been  smitten  by  Circe  for  incontinence,  and 
now  wanders  even  from  his  sty !  But  I  cannot  go  on 
in  this  way,  for  he  is  dead,  poor  lad,  and  I  shall  not 
see  him  again. 

To  those  men  who  have  wedded  early  I  can  never 
hope  to  explain  the  deep-rootedness  of  such  a  friend- 
ship as  ours.  It  was,  to  me,  as  though  my  own  youth 

,     *Preface  to  the  first  edition. 

liii 


liv  PREFACE 

were  renewed  in  more  perfect  design.  Never  again 
shall  I  experience  that  exquisite  delight  with  which 
one  sees  a  youth  reach  post  after  post  along  the  ways 
of  life  and  thought,  reach  out  eagerly  to  field  on  field 
of  knowledge,  through  which  one  has  tramped  or 
scampered  so  many  years  before.  With  something  of 
wonder,  too,  was  I  inspired  to  see  so  young  a  man  lead 
a  life  so  perfectly  balanced,  so  exquisitely  sensitive 
to  every  fine  masculine  influence.  Possessing  to  an 
unusual  degree  that  rare  temperament  which  we  call 
culture,  he  entered  joyously  into  all  that  life  offered  to 
him,  impatient  only  of  hypocrisy  and  what  he  called 
"the  copiously  pious."  Many  misunderstood  this 
phase  of  his  character,  mistaking  for  coarseness  what 
was  really  a  very  fine  love  of  honesty  in  thinking. 

Of  his  antecedents  I  have  often  wished  to  know 
something,  but  it  was  his  whim  to  treat  personal  de- 
tails in  a  very  general  way.  He  would  maintain 
obstinately  that  he  himself  was  the  most  interesting 
person  he  had  ever  met,  because,  he  would  add, 
he  knew  so  little  about  himself!  When  pressed,  he 
would  say,  "My  forefathers  ploughed  the  soil,  my 
father  ploughed  the  ocean,  I  myself  am  the  full  corn 
in  the  ear."  As  to  his  childhood,  he  rarely  mentioned 
it  save  in  a  cynical  manner,  indicating  indisputably 
enough  that  all  had  not  gone  well. 

"In  the  beginning,"  I  heard  him  tell  a  religious 


PREFACE  Iv 

person,  "In  the  beginning  my  mother  bore  me. 
When  I  was  a  child  I  was  wont  to  bore  my  mother. 
Now  we  bore  each  other."  That  this  was  primarily 
intended  to  shock  our  friend's  devotional  sensibilities 
I  do  not  doubt,  but  I  imagine  it  contained  some  small 
truth  all  the  same.  I  think  he  rather  shrank  from 
personalities,  resolutely  refusing  even  to  be  photo- 
graphed, hating  that  process  with  an  unexampled 
vehemence  strange  in  one  so  modern  and  so  versed  in 
mechanical  and  chemical  science.  "I!"  he  would 
rage.  "What  have  /  done  to  merit  portraiture? 
Have  I  builded  a  city,  or  painted  a  masterpiece,  or 
served  my  country,  or  composed  an  iliad?"  Again, 
"Better  a  single  faulty  human  effort  than  the  most 
perfect  photograph  ever  developed." 

Scanty  indeed,  therefore,  did  I  find  the  materials 
with  which  to  fashion  an  introduction  to  this  book. 
With  the  exception  of  one  or  two  pertinent  fragments 
among  his  manuscripts,  fragments  more  valuable 
to  a  critic  than  a  biographer,  I  was  unrewarded. 
One  thing,  however,  was  impressed  upon  me  by  my 
search.  Here,  at  any  rate,  was  a  man  developed  to 
the  full.  Here  was  a  man  whose  culture  was  deep  and 
broad,  whose  body  was  inured  to  toil,  whose  hands 
and  brains  were  employed  in  doing  the  world's  work. 
I  have  read  in  books  vehement  denials  of  such  a  one's 
existence.  He  himself,  in  citing  Ruskin,  seemed  to 


Ivi  PREFACE 

be  sceptical  of  any  one  man  becoming  a  passionate 
thinker  and  a  manual  worker.  But  I  have  often 
heard  him  in  close  converse  with  some  old  shopmate, 
passing  hour  after  hour  in  technical  reminiscences 
and  descriptions;  then,  upon  the  entrance  of  some 
artist  or  litterateur,  plunge  into  the  history  of  Letters 
or  of  Arts,  never  at  a  loss  for  authorities  or  original 
ideas,  often  even  illuminating  intellectual  problems 
by  some  happy  analogy  with  the  problems  of  his  trade, 
and  rarely  grounding  on  either  the  Scylla  of  over- 
bearing conceit  or  the  Charybdis  of  foolish  humility. 
I  must  insist  on  this  fact  at  all  events:  he  was  not 
merely  a  clever  young  man  of  modern  ideas.  "Lon- 
don is  paved  and  bastioned  with  clever  young  men," 
he  would  snarl.  His  aversion  to  the  impossible  type 
of  cultured  nonentities  was  almost  too  marked.  His 
passion  for  thinking  as  an  integral  part  of  life  placed 
him  beyond  these,  among  a  rarer,  different  class  of 
men,  the  lovers  of  solitude.  It  came  to  view  in 
various  ways,  this  fine  quality  of  intellectual  fibre. 
And,  indeed,  he — who  had  in  him  so  much  that  drove 
him  towards  the  fine  Arts,  yet  could  go  out  to  earn  his 
bread  upon  the  waters,  dwelling  among  those  who  had 
no  glimmering  of  the  things  he  cared  for — was  no 
slippered  mouther  of  Pater  and  Sainte-Beuve  but  a 
strong  spirit,  confident  in  his  own  breadth  of  pinion, 
courageous  to  let  Fate  order  his  destiny. 


PREFACE  Ivii 

Another  outcome  of  my  search  for  light  was  a 
conviction  of  the  importance  of  his  theory  of  art.  I 
might  almost  say  his  religion  of  art,  inasmuch  as  he 
had  no  traffic  with  anything  that  was  not  spontane- 
ous, effervescing.  To  him  a  hammer  and  a  chisel 
were  actual  and  very  real,  and  the  plastic  art  appealed 
especially  to  him  in  its  character  of  smiting.  To  smite 
from  the  stone,  to  finish  with  all  a  craftsman's  cun- 
ning care — there  seemed  to  him  real  joy  in  this;  and 
so  I  think  he  felt  the  influence  of  art  dynamically, 
maintaining  always  that  the  life-force  is  also  the  art- 
force,  and  remains  constant  throughout  the  ages. 
So,  I  imagine,  he  reasoned  when  he  wrote  the  follow- 
ing verses,  only  to  fling  them  aside  to  be  forgotten: 

An  Author,  Sitting  to  a  Sculptor,  Speaks  His  Mind. 

And  yet  you  call  yourself  a  sculptor,  sir? 

You  with  your  tape  a-trailing  to  and  fro, 
Jotting  down  figures,  frowning  when  I  stir, 

Measuring  me  across  the  shoulders,  so! 
And  yet  you  are  an  artist,  they  aver, 

Heir  to  the  crown  of  Michelangelo? 

I  cannot  think — eh,  what?  I  ought  to  think? 

How  will  you  have  me?     Shall  I  sit  at  ease, 
Staring  at  nothing  thro'  the  eyelids'  chink, 

Coining  new  words  for  old  philosophies  ? 
Aye,  so  I  sit  until  the  pale  stars  wink 

And  vanish  ere  the  early  morning  breeze. 


Iviii  PREFACE 

Sculpture  is  dead,  I  say!     We  have  no  men 
To  match  the  mighty  masters  of  the  past: 

I've  read,  I've  seen  their  works;  the  acumen 
Of  Learning  on  their  triumph  I  have  cast. 

Divine!     Colossal!    Tongue  nor  pen 
Can  tell  their  beauty,  O  Iconoclast! 

Ah,  now  you're  modelling — in  the  soft  clay! 

In  that  prosaic  task  where  is  the  glow 
Of  genius,  as  in  great  Lorenzo's  day, 

When,  solitary  in  his  studio, 
Buonarotti,  in  his  "terrible  way," 

Smote  swift  and  hard  the  marble,  blow  on  blow? 

One  moment  while  I  ask  you,  earnestly, 

Where  is  the  splendour  of  the  Dorian  gone, 
The  genius  of  him  whose  mastery 

Outshines  the  classic  grace  of  Sicyon, 

Whose  art  can  show  Death  lock'd  with  Life,  the  cry, 

The  shuddering  moan  of  poor  Laocoon  ? 

The  Sculptor  continues  to  model  swiftly  while  the  sitter  re- 
mains motionless,  watching  him. 

That's  good,  sir,  good!     I'll  wait  till  you  have  done: 

We  men  of  letters  are  a  crabbed  race; 
Often  we're  blind  with  staring  at  the  sun; 

And  when  the  evening  stars  begin  their  race, 
We  miss  their  beauty,  we,  who  creep  and  run 

Like  beetles  o'er  a  buried  Greek  god's  face. 

I  am  reluctant  to  explain  one  of  the  main  motifs 
of  this  young  man's  life  as  "an  unfortunate  love 


PREFACE  lix 

affair."  Indeed,  apart  from  his  frank  avowal  of  the 
wandering  fever  in  his  blood,  I  am  grown  to  believe 
that  it  was  the  very  reverse  of  unfortunate  for  him. 
It  brought  him,  as  such  things  do,  face  to  face  with 
Realities,  and  showed  him,  sharply  enough,  that  at 
a  certain  point  in  a  man's  life  there  is  a  Gate,  guarded 
by  the  Fates,  whose  questions  he  must  answer  truth- 
fully, or  turn  sadly  aside  into  the  vague  thickets  of 
an  aimless  existence.  And  never  did  there  live  a 
youth  more  sincere  in  his  thought.  I  know  nothing 
more  typical  of  him  than  his  resolute  refusal  to  sit 
for  his  portrait  until  he  had  done  something  memor- 
able. "What!"  he  would  cry.  "Why,  the  milk- 
man, who,  I  heard,  has  just  had  twins,  is  more  worthy 
of  that  high  honour  than  I.  He  has  done  something 
in  the  world!" 

And  now  he  is  dead,  and  doing  and  not  doing  are 
beyond  his  power.  That  the  sea  whereon  he  was 
born  should  bring  him  his  death  was  fitting.  Often 
he  would  urge  his  horror,  not  of  death,  but  of  Chris- 
tian burial.  To  be  boxed  up  in  the  midst  of  mum- 
meries and  lies — he  would  start  up  and  pace  the  floor, 
the  sweat  standing  on  his  face.  Grimly  enough,  Fate 
took  him  at  his  word,  flung  him  suddenly  into  eter- 
nity, the  rushing  of  the  wind  his  only  requiem,  the 
coastwise  lights  and  the  morning  star  the  only 
watchers  of  his  end, 


Ix  PREFACE 

To  the  orthodox  sentiment  sudden  death  may 
seem  a  very  horrible  sort  of  end  to  a  promising  life. 
But,  as  I  sit  by  my  window  on  the  Walk,  while  the 
tides  of  Thames  and  traffic  flow  swiftly  by,  and  the 
blue  evening  mist  comes  down  over  the  river,  trans- 
forming dingy  wharf  and  factory  into  fairy  palace 
and  phantom  battlement,  it  seems  to  me  that  my 
friend  died  fitly  and  well,  in  the  midst  of  Realities, 
recking  little  that  the  love  he  thought  secure  had 
passed  irrevocably  from  him,  but  never  swerving  in 
fidelity  to  his  mistress  or  devotion  to  his  friend. 

The  air  grows  chilly,  and  night  has  fallen  over  the 
river. 

Chelsea. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 


THIS  evening,  as  the  Italian  boatman  rowed  me 
across  the  harbour  of  Livorno,  and  the  exquisite  love- 
liness of  the  night  enfolded  me,  I  thought  of  you. 
It  may  be  that  the  long  curving  line  of  lights  which 
marked  the  Molo  Nuovo  reminded  me  of  the  Em- 
bankment by  our  windows,  and  so  carried  my  mind 
on  to  him  who  waits  for  his  Fanderdecken  to  re- 
turn. Around  me  loomed  the  hulls  of  many  steam- 
ers, their  dark  sides  relieved  by  glowing  port-holes, 
while  across  the  water  came  the  hoarse  calls  of 
the  boatmen,  the  sound  of  oars,  music,  and  the 
light  laughter  of  women.  Far  down  the  harbour, 
near  the  Castello,  a  steamer's  winches  rattled  and 
roared  in  irregular  gusts  of  noise.  By  the  Custom 
House  a  steam  yacht,  gleaming  ghostly  white  in  the 
darkness,  lay  at  rest.  And  so,  as  the  boat  slipped 
through  the  buoys,  and  the  molten  silver  dripped 
from  the  oars,  I  thought  of  you,  my  friend  at  home, 

3 


4  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

and  of  my  promise  that  I  would  tell  you  of  the  life 
of  men  in  a  cargo-tramp. 

I  propose,  as  I  go  on  from  sea  to  sea,  to  tell,  in  the 
simplest  language  in  my  power,  of  the  life  that  is 
around  me,  of  the  men  among  whom  I  toil.  I  shall 
not  tell  you  of  these  fair  towns  of  the  Southern  Sea, 
for  you  have  travelled  in  years  gone  by.  I  shall 
not  prattle  of  the  beauties  of  Nature,  for  the  prattle  is 
at  your  elbow  in  books.  But  I  shall — nay,  must,  for 
it  is  my  use  and  habit — tell  you  about  myself  and  the 
things  in  my  heart.  I  shall  be,  not  a  hero  talking 
about  men,  but  a  man  talking  about  heroes,  as  well 
as  the  astonishing  beings  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in 
ships,  and  have  their  business  in  great  waters. 

To  you,  therefore,  these  occasional  writings  will  be 
in  somewise  addressed.  You  are  my  friend,  and  I 
know  you  well.  That  alone  is  to  me  a  mystic  thread 
in  the  skein  of  my  complex  life,  a  thread  which  may 
not  be  severed  without  peril.  You,  moreover,  know 
me  well,  or  perhaps  better,  inasmuch  as  I  am  but 
passing  the  periods  of  early  manhood,  while  you  are 
in  the  placid  phases  of  an  unencumbered  middle-age. 
So,  in  speaking  of  the  deep  things  of  life,  I  may  leave 
much  to  be  taken  for  granted,  as  is  fitting  between 
friends. 

I  offer  no  apology,  moreover,  for  the  form  of  these 
Letters  from  an  Ocean  Tramp.  Even  if  I  unwisely 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  5 

endeavoured  to  hide  their  literary  character  under  a 
disguise  of  colloquialisms  and  familiar  references  to 
personal  intimacies,  I  should  fail,  because,  as  I  have 
just  said,  you  know  me  well.  In  your  private  judg- 
ments, I  believe,  I  am  allocated  among  those  who  are 
destined  to  set  the  Thames  on  fire.  In  plainer  words, 
you  believe  that  I  have  an  ambition.  This  is  true, 
and  so  I  make  no  attempt  to  conceal  from  you  the 
ulterior  design  of  these  essays.  Ere  you  have  read 
one  of  them,  you  will  perceive  that  I  am  writing  a 
book. 

I  shall  take  no  umbrage  at  the  failure  of  my  com- 
munications to  call  forth  replies.  I  know  you  to  be 
a  bad  correspondent,  but  a  valuable  friend.  I  know 
that  your  attitude  toward  a  letter  addressed  to  you 
is  that  of  a  mediaeval  prince  toward  a  recalcitrant 
prisoner — viz.,  get  all  the  information  possible  out  of 
him,  and  then  commit  him  to  the  flames.  Possibly, 
when  I  have  attained  to  a  deeper  knowledge  of  the 
spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages,  I  shall  also  have  discovered 
the  motives  for  this  curious  survival  of  barbarism  in 
your  character.  I  can  only  hope  humbly  that  these 
papers,  armed  with  their  avowed  literary  import, 
will  not  share  the  fate  of  the  commoner  envoys  pass- 
ing through  your  hands,  but  will  be  treated  as  noble 
ambassadors  rather  than  as  hapless  petitioners,  not 
merely  escaping  the  flames  of  oblivion,  but  receiving 


6  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

safe  conduct,  courteous  audience,  and  honourable 
lodging. 

II 

I  SUPPOSE  we  may  say  of  everyone,  that  he  sooner  or 
later  falls  a  victim  to  the  desire  to  travel,  with  as 
much  truth  as  we  say,  far  more  often,  that  he  falls  a 
victim  to  love.  However  that  may  be,  I  claim  no 
special  destiny  when  I  say  that  I  have  been  mastered 
by  both  passions,  except  perhaps  that  they  culmi- 
nated in  my  case  simultaneously. 

I  must  go  back  to  the  time  when  I  was  some  six 
years  old  to  find  the  first  faint  evidences  of  the  rover 
in  me.  At  that  time  we  lived  almost  at  the  foot  of 
that  interminable  thoroughfare,  the  Finsbury  Park 
Road,  next  door  to  a  childless  dame  whose  sole  com- 
panion was  a  pug  of  surpassing  hideousness  of  aspect, 
and  whose  sole  recreation  was  a  morning  stroll  in 
Finsbury  Park  with  this  pug.  How  I  came  to  form 
a  third  person  in  these  walks  I  cannot  quite  remember 
but  I  can  imagine.  At  the  age  of  six  I  was  a  solemn 
child,  unclean  in  habits,  consorting  with  "grown- 
ups," and  filled  with  an  unsocial  hatred  for  the  baby 
whose  matutinal  ablutions  were  consummated  at  the 
same  hour  at  which  the  old  lady  usually  took  her  walk. 
I  can  remember  that  I  was  supposed  to  assist  in 
some  way  at  those  ablutions,  probably  to  hold  the 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  ^ 

mottled  soap,  which  curiously  resembled  the  in- 
fant's limbs  when  pinched  with  cold;  and  so,  I  sup- 
pose, I  would  steal  out  and  join  the  lady  and  her 
dog,  walking  a  little  to  one  side  as  we  drifted  slowly 
up  the  dull  suburban  street  into  the  park.  Some- 
times we  went  as  far  as  the  lake,  and  I  have  faint 
memories  of  a  bun,  purchased  by  the  dame,  and 
munched  by  me  as  we  watched  the  gardeners  trim- 
ming the  beds.  I  do  not  wish  to  suggest  that  this 
lady  was  my  first  love — I  have  never  carried  my  seno- 
phile  proclivities  to  that  extent.  She  was,  to  me, 
the  antithesis  of  mottled  soap  and  cradle-rocking,  and 
as  such  she  lives  in  my  memory.  I  am  also  grateful 
to  her  for  giving  me  my  first  glimpse  of  a  world  out- 
side the  front  door;  an  ugly  world,  it  is  true,  a  world 
of  raucous  bargaining  and  ill-bred  enjoyment,  but  a 
world  nevertheless. 

Why  should  I  tell  of  so  trivial  an  incident  ?  Bear 
with  me  a  moment. 

Since  I  have  been  at  sea  I  have  often  reflected  upon 
the  fact  that  many  phases  of  my  life  are  even  now 
going  on,  quite  heedless  of  my  absence,  quite  apathe- 
tic of  my  very  existence,  in  fact.  How  marvellous, 
it  seems  to  me,  to  know  that  life  at  my  old  school  is 
proceeding  upon  exactly  the  same  lines  as  when  I 
was  there!  At  this  moment  I  can  see,  in  imagina- 
tion, the  whole  routine;  and  I  can  tell  at  any  time 


8  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

what  the  school  is  doing.  Again,  I  know  precisely 
the  goings-in  and  the  comings-out  of  all  the  staff  at 
my  old  employer's;  picture  to  myself  with  ease  what 
is  happening  at  any  instant.  More  wonderful  still,  I 
know  what  my  friend  is  doing  at  this  moment.  I 
know  that  he  is  seated  in  his  room  at  the  Institute, 
talking  to  our  friends  (perchance  of  me),  ere  they 
descend  to  their  lectures  at  seven  o'clock.  At  ten, 
while  I  am  "turned  in,"  he  will  be  leaving  the  Insti- 
tute, and  the  'bus  will  put  him  down  at  his  favourite 
hostelry.  At  this  moment  he  is  smoking  a  cigarette! 
But  then,  of  course,  he  is  always  smoking  a  cigarette! 

It  is  a  far  cry  from  a  stealthy  stroll  with  an  old 
woman  in  Finsbury  Park  to  a  twenty-thousand-mile 
tramp  in  a  freighter,  and  yet  one  is  the  logical  outcome 
of  the  other,  arrived  at  by  unconscious  yet  inevitable 
steps.  Listen  again. 

At  a  later  period,  when  I  had  discovered  that  tools 
were  a  necessary  complement  to  my  intellectual  well- 
being,  I  brought  my  insatiable  desire  to  make  some- 
thing to  the  assistance  of  my  equally  insatiable  desire 
to  go  somewhere.  From  a  sugar-box  and  a  pair  of 
perambulator  wheels  I  fashioned  a  cart,  between  the 
shafts  of  which  I  travelled  many  leagues  into  the  wilds 
of  Middlesex  and  Essex.  "Leagues"  must  be  under- 
stood in  the  sense  in  which  Don  Quixote  would  have 
used  the  word.  I  do  not  suppose  I  ever  traversed 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  9 

more  than  eight  or  ten  miles  at  a  time.  But  never, 
while  the  desire  to  go  out  and  see  is  living  within  me, 
shall  I  forget  how,  one  breathless  August  day,  when 
the  air  was  heavy  with  the  aroma  of  creosoted  sleep- 
ers, my  small  brother  and  I  stared  through  the  gates 
of  a  level  crossing,  and  saw  Epping  Forest  in  the  blue 
distance!  O  phantoms  of  Cortes,  Balboa,  and  De 
Soto,  wert  thou  there?  O  Sir  Francis,  hadst  thou 
that  thrill  when 

"Drake  went  down  to  the  Horn, 
And  England  was  crowned  thereby"? 

But  I  grow  magniloquent.  My  object  is  attained 
if  I  can  but  show  that  when  my  friend  took  me  under 
his  wing  at  the  Institute  long  years  agone,  when  the 
innocent-looking  lad  with  the  fair  hair,  that  might 
have  had  an  incipient  tonsure  superimposed  without 
incongruity,  drifted  away  from  textbooks  of  me- 
chanics, and  sat  down  with  Schiller,  Ducoudray, 
and  Carlyle,  he  little  imagined  how  adventurous  a 
spirit  there  boiled  under  that  demure  disguise  of  re- 
tiring scholarship — a  spirit  fired  with  an  untamable 
passion  for  looking  over  the  back-garden  wall! 

Even  perambulator  wheels  give  out,  however.  I 
forget  whether  the  wheels  of  my  little  cart  failed  be- 
fore my  mother's  patience,  or  the  reverse.  I  was 
growing  away  from  those  tiny  journeys;  my  head 


io  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

bulged  with  loose  heaps  of  intellectual  rubbish  ac- 
quired during  long  hours  of  unsociable  communion 
with  a  box  of  books  in  the  lumber  room.  I  knew  the 
date  of  Evil  Merodach's  accession  to  the  Assyrian 
throne,  but  I  did  not  know  who  killed  Cock  Robin. 
I  knew  more  than  Keats  about  the  discovery  of  the 
Pacific,  but  I  did  not  know  Keats.  I  knew  exactly 
how  pig-iron  was  smelted,  but  I  did  not  know  the 
iron  which  enters  into  the  soul.  I  knew  how  to  differ- 
entiate between  living  and  non-living  matter,  but  I 
did  not  know  that  I  was  alive.  Then  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  hell  opened  before  me;  I  was  sent  away  to 
school. 

Concerning  school  and,  after  school,  apprentice- 
ship, I  shall  not  speak.  Neither  mind  nor  body  can 
wander  far  in  those  humane  penitentiaries  called 
schools.  I  had  fed  myself  with  History  since  I  had 
learned,  painfully  enough,  to  read,  and  here  at  school 
I  found  I  knew  nothing.  What  did  it  matter?  The 
joy  of  knowing  the  name  of  the  wife  of  Darius,  of 
Lucan,  of  Caesar,  was  mine  alone.  I  wove  stories 
about  Roxana  and  Polla,  but  I  doubt  if  any  one  ever 
wove  stories  about  the  Conventicle  Act,  or  the 
Petition  of  Rights,  or  the  Supremacy  of  the  Pope,  as 
told  in  a  school  history.  I  often  wonder  that  boys 
do  not  grow  up  to  hate  their  country,  when  they  are 
gorged  with  the  horrible  trash  in  those  yellow  volumes. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  n 

I  once  read  of  a  little  boy  who  killed  himself  after 
reading  "The  Mighty  Atom."  I  believe  many 
people  deplored  this,  and  expressed  aversion  to  the 
book  in  consequence.  That  is  proper;  but  suppose 
the  school  history  had  related  the  story  of  "The  Little 
Princes  in  the  Tower"  with  the  same  power  and  in- 
tensity which  Corelli  employs  in  the  "Atom,"  and 
suppose  the  little  boy  had  been  so  overwhelmed  with 
the  horror  and  vividness  of  the  historical  perspective 
that  he  had  hanged  himself  behind  the  fourth-form 
classroom  door — well,  then,  I  should  say  the  remaind- 
er of  the  boys  would  have  learned  the  reign  of  Richard 
the  Third  as  it  has  never  been  learned  before  or  since, 
and  the  unhappy  suicide  would  not  have  died  in  vain. 

But,  as  I  said,  one  cannot  wander  far  at  school.  A 
schoolmaster  once  advised  his  colleagues  to  take  up 
some  literary  hobby — essay  writing,  articles  for  the 
press,  etc.;  for,  said  he,  teaching  is  a  narrowing  pro- 
fession. I  wonder  if  any  schoolmaster  has  ever 
imagined  how  narrowing  it  is  for  the  boys?  Have 
they  never  seen  the  look  of  abject  boredom  creep  over 
the  faces  of  even  clever  lads  as  the  "lesson"  drones 
on:  "At  this  period  the  Gothic  style  of  architecture 
arose,  and  was  much  used  in  Northern  Europe  for 
ecclesiastical  buildings."  And  so  on,  including  dates. 
Whose  spirit  would  not  fail  ?  Why  not,  oh,  my  mast- 
ers, why  not  use  this  inborn  passion  for  wandering 


12  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

abroad  of  which  I  write?  Why  not  take  that  jaded 
band  of  youths  out  across  yon  fields,  take  them  to 
the  village  church,  and  show  them  grinning  gargoyle 
and  curling  finial,  show  them  the  deep-cut  blocks  of 
stone,  show  them,  on  your  return,  a  picture  of  the 
Rue  de  la  Grosse  Horloge  at  Rouen?  Would  your 
trade  be  narrowing  then  ? 

Ill 

BUT  the  sea! 

My  friend  asked  me  once,  of  the  Mediterranean — 
Is  it  really  blue?  And  I  replied  that  I  could  give 
him  no  notion  of  the  colour  of  it.  And  that  is  true. 
From  the  real  "sea-green"  of  the  shallow  North  Sea 
to  the  turquoise-blue  of  the  Bay;  from  the  grey-white 
rush  of  the  Irish  Sea  to  the  clear-cut  emerald  of  the 
Clyde  Estuary;  from  the  colourless,  oily  swell  of  the 
Equatorial  Atlantic  to  the  paraffin-hued  rollers  of  the 
Tropic  of  Cancer,  the  sea  varies  as  human  nature  it- 
self. To  the  artist,  I  imagine,  no  two  square  miles 
are  alike,  no  two  sunsets,  no  two  sunrises: 

"His  sea  in  no  showing  the  same, 
His  sea,  yet  the  same  in  all  showing." 

As  I  climbed  the  steep  side  of  the  almost-empty 
steamer,  lying  at  the  Tyne-main  Buoys,  a  keen,  alert, 
bearded  face  looked  over  the  gunwale  above  me.  I 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  13 

stepped  aboard  and  spoke  to  the  owner  of  this  face. 
I  said,  "Is  the  Chief  aboard?" 

"He  is  not." 

"Is  the  Captain  aboard?" 

"He  is  not." 

"Then  who  is  aboard?" 

"The  Mate's  aboard." 

"Are  you  the  Mate?" 

"I  am  that." 

"My  name  is  McAlnwick.  I  am  signing  on  with 
this  steamer." 

"Ye 're  welcome."     And  we  shook  hands. 

He  is  the  very  image  of  my  old  Headmaster,  is  this 
mate  of  the  Benvenuto.  The  trim  beard,  the  keen, 
blue,  deep-set  eyes,  the  smile — how  often  have  I  seen 
them  from  my  vantage-point  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Sixth  Form!  On  his  head  is  an  old  uniform  cap 
with  two  gold  bands  and  an  obliterated  badge.  He 
wears  a  soiled  mess-jacket  with  brass  buttons  in  the 
breast-pocket  of  which  I  see  the  mouthpiece  of  a 
certain  ivory-stemmed  pipe.  His  hands  are  in  his 
trouser  pockets,  and  he  turns  from  me  to  howl  into 
the  cavernous  hold  some  directions  to  the  cargo-men 
below.  In  the  gathering  gloom  of  a  short  January 
afternoon,  with  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  winches  in 
my  ears,  I  stumble  aft  to  my  quarters,  thinking  pleas- 
antly of  my  first  acquaintance. 


i4  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

And  our  friendship  grows  as  we  proceed.  When 
we  have  slipped  out  of  the  Tyne  one  grey  evening, 
when  the  lights  of  Shields  and  Sunderland  die  away, 
we  are  friends.  For,  as  I  prophesied,  my  whiskey 
would  open  hearts.  It  was  on  a  cold,  bleak  morning, 
ere  we  left  Newcastle,  that  I  heard  a  stealthy  step 
down  the  stairs  to  my  room,  and  a  husky  whisper — 
had  I  a  nip  o'  whiskey?  Yes,  I  had  a  nip.  The 
bottle  is  opened,  and  I  fill  two  glasses.  Evidently 
the  First  Officer  is  no  believer  in  dilution.  With  a 
hushed  warning  of  "Ould  Maun!"  as  a  dull  snoring 
comes  through  the  partition,  he  tosses  my  whiskey 
"down  his  neck,"  rubs  his  stomach,  and  vanishes 
like — like  a  spirit!  Later  in  the  day,  as  I  stare 
across  at  some  huge  ships-of-war  (for  we  are  op- 
posite Elswick  now),  I  hear  a  voice,  a  hearty  voice, 
at  my  elbow. 

"Thank  ye,  Mister  McAlnwick,  for  the  whiskey. 
'Twas  good!" 

I  express  my  pleasure  at  hearing  this.  He  touches 
me  on  the  shoulder. 

"Come  down  to  me  berth  this  evening,"  he  says, 
"an'  we'll  have  a  nip."  And  I  promise. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  sensation  of  drinking  whiskey  with 
my  Headmaster's  double,  but  I  enjoy  creeping  down 
the  companion-way  to  the  Mate's  room.  And  I, 
being  of  the  true  line  of  descent,  with  my  father  held 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  15 

in  memory  still,  am  welcome.  I  am  taken  into  this 
old  sea-dog's  confidence,  and  we  talk.  I  have  learnt, 
I  think,  the  delicate  art  of  asking  questions  of  the 
men  who  do  the  world's  work.  Perhaps  because  I 
have  dwelt  so  long  with  them,  because  I  love  them 
truly,  they  tell  me  the  deep  things  of  their  lives. 
And  so  you  must  picture  me  in  the  Mate's  room, 
seated  on  his  settee,  while  he  loads  my  knees  with 
photographs  of  his  wife  and  children.  This  is  Jack, 
son  and  heir,  in  his  Boys'  Brigade  uniform.  He  has 
a  flute,  too,  which  he  "plays  beautiful,  Mr.  McAln- 
wick — beautiful!"  Then  there  is  Madge,  a  sweet 
little  English  maid  of  fourteen,  with  a  violin:  "Her 
mother  to  the  life."  "Dot"  follows,  with  only  her 
big  six-year-old  eyes  looking  out  of  curls  which  are 
golden.  And  the  Bafcy  on  his  mother's  knee — but  I 
cannot  describe  babies.  To  me  they  are  not  beauti- 
ful creatures.  They  always  seem  to  me,  in  photo- 
graphs, to  be  stonily  demanding  why  they  have  been 
born;  and  I,  wretched  man  that  I  am,  cannot  answer 
them,  for  I  do  not  know.  Calypso,  too,  not  "eter- 
nally aground  on  the  Goodwin  Sands  of  inconsola- 
bility,"  interests  me,  in  that  I  also  was  mothered  of 
a  sea-wife.  A  hard  life,  I  imagine,  a  hard  life.  I 
find  no  delight  in  the  sea  in  these  mariners.  "A  Life 
on  the  Ocean  Wave"  was  not  written  by  one  who 
earned  his  bread  from  port  to  port.  My  friend  the 


16  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Mate  (he  has  gone  on  watch  now,  so  I  may  speak 
freely)  lives  for  the  future.  He  holds  a  master's 
ticket,  yes;  but  commands  do  not  come  to  all.  He 
lives  for  the  time  when  the  insurance  money  falls  in, 
when  he  will  sit  down  in  the  little  house  in  Penarth 
where  the  sun  warms  the  creeper  on  the  back- 
garden  wall.  He  will  keep  chickens,  and  perhaps 
there  will  be  a  cucumber  frame  between  the  peas 
and  the  vegetable  patch,  and  he  will  do  a  little 
gardening  when  the  weather  is  fine,  and  smoke,  and 
read  the  shipping  news.  "And  there  shall  be  no 
more  sea." 

Not  that  I  would  give  you  to  think  that  a  Chief 
Officer's  life  is  one  of  toil.  Indeed,  on  a  steamship, 
while  at  sea,  he  has  little  to  do.  His  "watch"  is  a 
sinecure  save  in  thick  weather,  and  is  usually  occupied 
by  day  with  sundry  odd  jobs,  by  night  with  thoughts 
of  home.  In  port  he  is  busy  like  everybody  else; 
but  at  sea,  in  fine  weather,  his  greatest  grievance  is 
the  short  hours  "off"  and  "on."  Our  steamer  carries 
but  two  deck  officers,  and  these  two  keep  alternate 
"watch  and  watch"  throughout  the  twenty-four 
hours.  This  means  that  his  watch  below  is  all  sleep. 
The  Chief  Officer  comes  off  at  eight  p.m.,  say,  washes 
himself,  smokes  a  pipe,  and  "turns  in."  At  eleven- 
forty-five  the  sailor  coming  on  watch  at  the  wheel 
calls  him,  and  he  "turns  out."  Nothing  can  equal 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  17 

the  ghastly  expression  on  the  faces  of  men  who  have 
been  torn  from  their  sleep  at  an  unnaturally  prema- 
ture hour.  They  move  along  the  iron  decks  like 
ghosts,  peering  into  one's  face  like  disembodied  spirits 
seeking  their  corporeal  correlatives,  and  avoiding 
stanchions,  chains,  and  other  pitfalls  in  an  uncanny 
fashion.  In  the  meantime,  the  Second  Officer  drifts 
''aft"  to  his  bunk  for  another  four-hour  sleep.  And 
so  on,  day  after  day,  for  weeks. 


IV 

I  HAVE  this,  at  any  rate,  to  say  of  sea-life :  a  man  is 
pre-eminently  conscious  of  a  Soul.  I  feel,  remember- 
ing the  blithe  positivism  of  my  early  note,  that  I  am 
here  scarcely  consistent.  As  I  stood  by  the  rail  this 
morning  at  four  o'clock — the  icy  fingers  of  the  wind 
ruffled  my  hair  so  that  the  roots  tingled  deliciously, 
and  a  low,  greenish  cloud-bank,  which  was  Ireland, 
lay  nebulously  against  our  port  bow — I  felt  a  change 
take  place.  It  was  almost  physical,  organic.  The 
dawn  grew  whiter,  and  the  rose-pink  banners  of  the 
coming  sun  reached  out  across  the  grey  wastes  of  the 
St.  George's  Channel.  I  am  loth  to  use  the  trite 
metaphor  of  "a  spiritual  dawn."  By  a  strange 
twist  of  things,  my  barest  hint  of  a  soul  within  me, 
that  is  to  say,  the  faintest  glimmer  of  the  ever- 


1 8  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

increasing  purpose  of  my  being — the  moment  it 
showed  through,  the  outer  world,  including  my  own 
self,  had  always  greeted  it  with  inextinguishable 
laughter.  Perhaps  because  the  purpose  was  always 
so  very  immature,  so  very  uncertain.  I  wanted — I 
hardly  knew  what.  My  ideas  of  morality  were  so 
terrible  that  I  left  it  alone,  on  one  side,  for  a  time,  and 
charged  full  tilt  at  art.  I  shouted  that  I  thought 
music  a  disease,  and  musicians  crushed  me.  I  did 
not  mean  that;  but  I  could  get  no  nearer  to  what  I 
did  mean  in  any  other  phrase.  I  told  hard,  practical 
business  men  that  they  were  dreamers  and  vision- 
aries; and  they  are  still  dreaming. 

But  the  Angel  of  the  Spirit  does  not  move  in  any 
prescribed  path,  or  make  his  visits  to  any  time-table. 
I  think  I  heard  the  far-off  beating  of  his  wings  this 
morning,  as  we  swept  up-channel  towards  the  Clyde, 
and  I  think  I  was  promised  deeper  knowledge  of  Love 
and  Life  than  heretofore.  I  know  that  with  the  dawn 
came  a  sense  of  infinite  power  and  vision,  as  though 
the  cool  wind  were  the  rushing  music  of  the  spheres, 
and  the  rosy  cloudland  the  outer  portals  of  the 
Kingdom  of  God. 

And,  indeed,  I  have  had  my  reward.  I  had  come 
from  Italy,  where  I  had  wandered  through  churches 
and  galleries,  and  had  seen  the  supreme  excellence  of 
a  generation  whose  like  we  shall  not  see  again,  and  as 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  19 

we  came  up  that  stately  firth  and  discovered  a  gene- 
ration as  supreme  in  their  art  as  the  Italians  of 
the  sixteenth  century  were  in  theirs,  I  held  my 
breath. 

From  Greenock  to  Glasgow  resounded  the  clangour 
of  hammers  and  the  thunder  of  mechanism.  Plate 
by  plate,  rivet  by  rivet,  and  beam  by  beam,  there 
grew  before  my  very  eyes  the  shapes  of  half  a  hundred 
ships.  I  see  more  clearly  still,  now,  what  I  meant  by 
insisting  on  the  conservation  of  intellectual  energy. 
My  friend  points  piteously  to  past  periods,  and  says, 
"They  can't  do  it  now,  old  man/'  And  I  smile  and 
point  to  those  steel  steamships,  growing  in  grace  and 
beauty  as  I  watch,  and  I  say,  "They  couldn't  do  that 
then,  old  man!"  Just  as  the  physical  energy  in  this 
universe  is  a  definite  totality,  so  is  the  intellectual  or 
spiritual  energy.  The  Da  Vinci  of  to-day  leaves  his 
Last  Supper  undepicted;  but  he  drives  a  Tube 
through  the  London  clay.  Cellini  no  longer  casts  a 
Perseus  and  alternates  a  murder  with  a  Trattato; 
he  builds  engines  and  railroads  and  ships.  Michael 
Angelo  smites  no  sibyls  from  the  living  stone,  but  he 
has  carved  the  face  of  the  very  earth  to  his  design. 
And  though  no  fair  youth  steps  forth  to  paint  the 
unearthly  nimbus-light  around  the  brows  of  his  be- 
loved madonna,  I  count  it  fair  exchange  that  from 
every  reef  and  point  of  this  our  sea-girt  isle  there 


20  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

shines  a  radiance  none  can  watch  without  a  catching 
of  the  breath. 


IT  is  a  far  call  from  such  musings  to  the  Skipper, 
whom  I  encountered  as  I  was  in  the  midst  of  them. 
It  is  only  the  bald  truth  to  say  that  I  had  not  then 
considered  him  to  be  a  human  being.  Even  now  I 
am  uncertain  how  to  describe  him,  for  we  do  not 
meet  often.  He  is  a  tall,  powerfully  built,  slow- 
moving  man,  strong  with  the  strength  of  those  who 
live  continually  at  sea.  Something  apart  from  tem- 
porary bias  made  me  look  distastefully  upon  his 
personality.  I  resolved  to  fasten  it  upon  my  dissect- 
ing board,  and  analyse  it,  relegating  it  if  possible  to 
its  order,  genus,  and  species.  Let  me  try. 

A  single  glance  at  the  specimen  before  us,  gentle- 
men, tells  us  that  we  have  to  deal  with  a  remarkable 
case  of  arrested  development.  Although  inexpe- 
rienced observers  might  imagine  traces  of  the  British 
colonel,  as  found  in  Pall  Mall,  in  the  bristling  white 
moustache,  swollen  neck,  and  red  gills,  we  find  neither 
public  school  education  nor  inefficiency  much  in  evi- 
dence anywhere.  On  the  contrary,  education  is  in  a 
rudimentary  condition,  though  with  slightly  protu- 
berent  mathematical  and  fictional  glands.  Ineffi- 
ciency, too,  is  quite  absent,  the  organ  having  had  but 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  21 

small  opportunity  to  perform  its  functions.  The 
subject,  we  may  conclude,  gentlemen,  has  been  accus- 
tomed to  a  sort  of  mathematical  progression  and  hav- 
ing to  ascertain  its  whereabouts  in  the  water  by  "tak- 
ing the  sun."  It  has  been  fed  chiefly  on  novels,  food 
which  requires  no  digestive  organs.  It  has  a  horror 
of  land  generally,  and  should  never  be  looked  for  "on 
the  rocks."  You  observe  this  accumulation  of  yellow 
tissue  round  the  heart.  The  subject  is  particularly 
fond  of  gold,  which  metal  eventually  strangles  the 
heart  and  renders  its  action  ineffective  and  unreliable. 

Longfellow,  if  I  remember  rightly,  drew  a  very 
spirited  comparison  between  the  building  and  launch- 
ing of  a  ship  and  the  building  and  launching  of  a  state. 
The  state,  said  he,  is  a  ship.  M-yes,  in  a  poetical 
way.  But  no  poetry  is  needed  to  say  that  a  ship  is  a 
state.  I  maintain  that  it  is  the  most  perfect  state 
yet  conceived;  and  it  is  almost  startling  to  think  that 
so  perfect  an  institution  as  a  ship  can  be  run  success- 
fully without  morality,  without  honesty,  without 
religion,  without  even  ceremonial — without,  in  fact, 
any  of  those  props  usually  considered  by  Tories  and 
Nonconformists  to  be  so  vital  to  the  body-politic. 

For,  observe,  here  on  this  ship  we  have  some  forty 
human  beings,  each  of  whom  has  certain  clearly  de- 
fined duties  to  perform,  each  of  whom  owes  instant 
and  absolute  obedience  to  his  superior  officer;  each  of 


22  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

whom  receives  a  definite  amount  of  food,  drink, 
tobacco,  and  sleep  per  day;  each  of  whom  is  bound 
for  a  certain  period  to  remain  in  the  state,  but  is  free 
to  go  or  stay  when  that  period  terminates;  each  of 
whom  is  at  liberty  to  be  of  any  persuasion  he  please, 
of  any  political  party  he  please,  to  be  of  any  nation- 
ality he  please,  provided  he  speak  the  language  of  the 
state;  each  of  whom  is  medically  attended  by  the 
state;  and,  finally,  each  of  whom  can  snap  his  fingers 
at  every  Utopia-monger  since  Plato,  and  call  him  a 
fool  who  makes  paradises  for  other  fools  to  dwell  in. 
So,  I  say,  the  ship  is  a  perfect  state,  its  very  perfec- 
tion being  attested  by  the  desire  of  its  inhabitants 
to  end  their  days  elsewhere. 

Joking  aside,  though,  I  fear  my  notions  of  sailor- 
men  have  been  sadly  jarred  since  I  began  to  study 
them.  Writing  with  one  eye  on  this  master-mariner 
of  ours,  I  call  to  mind  certain  conceptions  of  the  sailor- 
man  which  my  youthful  mind  gathered  from  books 
and  relations.  He  was  an  honest,  God-fearing  man; 
slightly  superstitious  certainly,  slightly  forcible  in  his 
language  at  times,  slightly  garrulous  when  telling  you 
about  the  Sarah  Sands;  but  all  these  were  as  spots  on 
the  sun.  He  was  just  and  upright  towards  all  men, 
never  dreamed  of  making  money  "on  his  own,"  and 
read  prayers  aloud  on  Sunday  morning  to  the  assem- 
bled seamen. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  23 

Humph!  I  own  I  cannot  imagine  this  skipper 
reading  anything  aloud  to  his  crew  except  the  Riot 
Act,  and  he  would  not  get  more  than  half-way  through 
that  if  his  cartridges  were  dry.  There  is  a  brutal, 
edge-of-civilization  look  in  his  cold  blue  eye  which 
harmonizes  ill  with  the  Brixton  address  on  the  letters 
he  sends  to  his  wife. 

Ah,  well!  Sometimes,  when  I  think  of  this  man 
and  his  like,  when  I  think  of  my  puny  attempts  to 
creep  into  their  skins,  I  must  need  laugh,  lest,  like 
Beaumarchais,  I  should  weep.  What,  after  all,  do  I 
know  of  him?  What  is  there  in  my  armoury  to 
pierce  this  impenetrable  outer-man?  Once,  when  I 
was  Browning-mad,  I  began  an  epic.  Yes,  I,  an 
epic!  I  pictured  the  hordes  of  civilisation  sweeping 
over  an  immense  and  beautiful  mountain,  crushing, 
destroying,  manufacturing,  and  the  burden  of  their 
cry  was  a  scornful  text  of  Ruskin's — "We  do  not 
come  here  to  look  at  the  mountain";  and  they 
shouted,  "Stand  aside."  And  then,  when  the  moun- 
tain lay  blackened,  and  dead,  and  disembowelled, 
out  of  the  hordes  of  slaves  came  a  youth  who  would 
not  work  and  thereby  lose  his  soul;  so  he  set  out  on  a 
pilgrimage.  And  the  burden  of  his  song  was  "the 
hearts  of  men." 

"And  the  cry  went  up  to  the  roofs  again. 
Show  me  the  way  to  the  hearts  of  men." 


24  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

But,  alas!  by  the  time  I  had  got  back  into  blank 
verse  again,  he  had  fallen  in  love,  and  as  far  as  I 
know  he  lived  happy  ever  after.  But  I  often  think 
of  his  clear,  boyish  voice  singing,  "Show  me  the  way 
to  the  hearts  of  men." 

Gilbert  Chesterton,  whose  genius  I  hope  my  friend 
will  some  day  appreciate,  once  wrote  a  strange  "crazy 
tale,"  in  which  he  meets  a  madman  who  had  stood  in 
a  field;  and  this  seemingly  silent  pasture  had  pre- 
sented to  his  ears  an  unspeakable  uproar.  And  he 
says,  "I  could  hear  the  daisies  grow!"  Well,  I  have 
sometimes  thought  of  that  when  in  some  roaring  street 
of  London.  Could  I  but  hear  men  and  women  think 
as  they  pass  along!  To  what  a  tiny  hum  would  the 
traffic  fall  when  that  titanic  clangour  met  my  ears! 
I  imagine  Walter  Pater  had  this  thought  in  mind 
when  he  says,  so  finely,  of  young  Gaston  de  Latour: 
"He  became  aware,  suddenly,  of  the  great  stream  of 
human  tears,  falling  always  through  the  shadows  of 
the  world." 

How  good  that  is!  But,  alas!  So  few  read  Pater. 
It  is  true  men  cannot  possibly  read  everything.  To 
quote  another  exquisite  thinker,  who  I  fear  drops 
more  and  more  into  oblivion:  "A  man  would  die  in 
the  first  cloisters"  if  he  tried  to  read  all  the  books  of 
the  world.  But  it  is  strange  so  few  read  those  eight 
or  nine  volumes,  so  beautifully  printed,  which  are 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  25 

Pater's  legacy  to  us.  How  they  would  be  repaid  by 
the  delicate  dexterity  of  his  art,  the  wonderful  music 
of  his  style!  But  I  digress. 

I  have  no  doubt  that  many  monarchs  would  envy 
the  life  of  a  steamship  captain  at  sea.  Indeed,  his 
duties  are  non-existent,  his  responsibility  enormous. 
He  bears  the  same  relation  to  his  company  that  a 
Viceroy  of  India  bears  to  the  Home  Government. 
So  extended  were  his  powers  that  he  could  take 
the  steamer  into  a  port,  sell  her  cargo,  sell  the  vessel 
herself,  discharge  her  crew,  and  disappear  for  ever. 
It  is  a  sad  pill  for  us  sentimentalists  that  those  who 
live  by  and  on  the  sea  have  less  sentiment  than  any 
others.  These  masters  are  wholly  intent  on  the 
things  of  which  money  is  the  exchange.  They  have 
never  yet  seen  "the  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or 
land."  Their  utmost  flight  above  "pickings"  and 
"store  commissions"  is  a  morose  evangelicalism,  a 
sort  of  ill-breeding  illumined  by  the  smoky  light  of  the 
Apocalypse.  But  they  never  relax  their  iron  grasp 
on  this  world.  Perhaps  because  they  feel  the  super- 
nal tugging  at  them  so  persistently  they  hold  the 
tighter  to  the  tangible.  They  are  ashamed,  I  think, 
to  let  any  divinity  show  through.  "And  ye  shall  be 
as  gods"  was  not  uttered  of  them.  The  romance — 
that  is  the  word! — the  romance  of  their  lives  is  never 
mirrored  in  their  souls.  And  the  realisation  of  this 


26  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

has  sometimes  led  me  to  imagine  that — it  was  always 
so!  I  mean  that  there  was  nothing  poetic  to  Hercu- 
les about  the  Augean  task,  when  the  pungent  smell 
of  ammonia  filled  his  nostrils,  and  he  bent  a  sweat- 
dewed  face  to  that  mighty  scavenging  once  more: 
that  there  was  nothing  poetic  to  Caesar  about  the 
Rubicon:  nothing  poetic  to  Clive  about  India.  The 
world  seems  to  have  an  invincible  prejudice  against 
men  who  see  the  romance  in  the  work  they  are  doing. 
The  footballing,  cigarette-smoking  clerk,  who  lives 
at  Hornsey  or  Tufnell  Park,  works  in  an  office  in 
Queen  Victoria  Street,  lunches  at  Lyons's,  and  plays 
football  at  Shepherd's  Bush,  sees  no  romance  in  his 
own  life,  which  is  in  reality  thrilling  with  adventure, 
but  thinks  Captain  Kettle  the  hero  of  an  ideal  exist- 
ence. Captain  Kettle,  bringing  coal  from  Dunston 
Staiths  to  Genoa,  suffers  day  after  day  of  boredom, 
and  reads  Marie  Corelli  and  Hall  Caine  with  a  relish 
only  equalled  by  the  girl  typewriters  in  the  second- 
class  carriages  of  the  eight-fifteen  up  from  Croydon 
or  Hampstead  Heath.  These  people  cannot  see  the 
sunlight  of  romance  shining  on  their  own  faces!  I 
observe  in  myself  a  frantic  resentment  when  I  fail 
to  convince  the  other  officers  that  they  are  heroes. 
They  regard  such  crazy  notions  as  dangerous  and 
scarcely  decent.  You  can  now  perceive  why  religion 
occasionally  gains  such  a  hold  upon  these  men.  To 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  27 

be  uplifted  about  work,  or  nature,  or  love,  is  deroga- 
tory to  their  dignity  as  bond-slaves  of  the  industrial 
world;  but  in  the  realms  of  the  infinite  future,  in  the 
Kingdom  of  God,  where  "there  shall  be  no  more  sea," 
their  souls  break  away  from  the  harbour-mud,  and 
they  put  out  on  the  illimitable  ocean  of  belief. 


VI 

IT  is  so  long  since  I  set  my  hand  to  paper  that  I  am 
grown  rusty!  I  did  not  write  you  from  Madeira — 
that  is  true.  One  cannot  write  from  Madeira  when 
"Madeira"  means  a  plunging  vortex  of  coal-dust,  a 
blazing  sun,  and  the  unending  roar  of  the  winches  as 
they  fish  up  ton  after  ton  of  coal.  Moreover,  I  was 
boarded  by  a  battalion  of  fleas  from  the  Spanish  la- 
bourers in  my  vicinity — fleas  that  had  evidently  been 
apprenticed  to  their  trade,  and  had  been  allowed 
free  scope  for  the  development  of  their  ubiquitous 
genius.  I  looked  at  the  old  rascal  who  tallied  the 
bags  with  me,  envisaged  in  parchment,  and  clothed  in 
picturesque  remnants,  and  heard  his  croaking  "Cin- 
cuo  saco,  Seiior,"  or  "Cuarro  saco,  Senor,"  as  he  bade 
me  note  the  varying  numbers  on  the  hook,  and  I 
wondered  inwardly  whether  the  Holy  Office  had  ex- 
perimented during  the  sixteenth  century  with  Spanish 
fleas,  and  so  brought  them  to  such  an  astonishing 


28  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

perfection  in  the  administration  of  slow  torture. 
Breeding,  I  take  it,  holds  good  with  fleas  as  with 
horses,  dogs,  etc.  Those  born  of  parents  with  thicker 
mail,  longer  springs,  harder  proboscis,  and  greater 
daring  in  initiative,  would  doubtless  be  selected  and 
encouraged,  if  I  may  say  so,  to  go  farther.  It  is  possi- 
ble that  many  famous  recantations  could  be  accounted 
for  by  this  hypothesis.  Galileo,  for  instance,  proba- 
bly had  a  sensitive  epidermis  which  afforded  an  un- 
limited field  for  the  exploitation  of  Spanish  fleas, 
which  formed,  according  to  my  theory,  an  indispensa- 
ble item  in  the  torture  chest  carried  by  the  fraternity 
in  Tuscany.  Giordano  Bruno,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
imagine  to  have  been  a  dark-skinned  heretic,  tanned 
by  travel  and  hardship,  and  regarding  the  aphanip- 
terous  insect  with  the  sardonic  contempt  of  one  who 
had  lived  in  England  in  the  sixteenth  century.  His 
own  gown  probably  contained  . 

I  was  roused  from  these  musings  by  observing 
four  bags  come  up  on  the  hook,  and  hearing  them 
saluted  by  my  picturesque  vis-d  vis  with  "Cincuo  saco, 
Senor!"  I  deserted  my  theory  and  hastened  to  point 
out  the  error  of  fact.  He  bowed  his  head  in  sub- 
mission with  all  the  haughty  grace  of  Old  Castile. 
When  out  at  sea  once  more,  I  looked  back  along  his 
ancestral  line;  I  saw  him  in  the  days  of  old,  marching 
through  Italy  with  the  Great  Emperor,  taking  part 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  29 

in  some  murderous  deed  that  cried  to  the  law  for 
vengeance,  flying  from  Spain  in  a  tall  galleon  to  still 
more  desperate  work  upon  the  high  seas,  settling  in 
these  pleasant  islands  with  bloody  booty  in  pieces  of 
eight,  drifting  down  and  down  to  an  adobe  hut,  and 
an  occasional  job  as  sub-deputy  assistant  stevedore 
to  a  British  coal  factor.  Then  he  faded  from  my 
sight,  and  the  life  of  an  ocean  tramp  closed  round  me 
once  more. 

VII 

SAILCLOTH  and  coal-dust  being  our  equivalent  for 
sackcloth  and  ashes,  the  steamer  looks  mournful 
indeed  as  she  drives  southward  towards  the  Cape. 
But  with  lower  latitudes  comes  warmer  weather, 
and  a  sea  so  unutterably  smooth  that  one  loses  faith 
in  the  agony  of  the  Bay  or  the  Gulf  of  Lyons,  while 
the  hellish  frenzy  of  the  North  Atlantic  in  winter  is  a 
distemper  of  the  brain.  It  is  in  such  halcyon  days 
that  we  begin  to  believe  in  paint.  The  decks  are 
methodically  chipped  and  scraped  of  their  corroding 
rust,  ventilators  are  washed  and  painted,  and  all  the 
deck-houses  are  cleansed  of  a  coating  of  coal-dust 
which  seems  appalling.  As  the  days  drone  by  the 
filth  disappears;  pots  of  red,  white,  brown,  and  black 
paint  come  out  of  the  Mate's  secret  store  in  the 
"fore-peak,"  and  one  hears  satirical  approval  from 


30  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

those  below.  "Like  a  little  yacht,  she  is,"  says  one, 
and  the  Second  Mate  is  asked  if  he  has  a  R.  Y.  S. 
flag  in  the  chart-room.  I  fear  the  wit  who  called  the 
engine-room  a  whited  sepulchre  had  some  smack  of 
truth  in  him.  The  Mate  had  given  it  an  external 
coating  of  paint  as  white  as  the  driven  snow,  and  it 
needed  no  heaven-sent  seer  to  perceive  that  within 
it  was  full  of  all  uncleanness.  But  what  would  you  ? 
The  engines  do  not  run  of  themselves,  though  to  say 
so  is  one  of  the  navigator's  few  joys  in  a  world  of  woe. 
The  ship  herself  knows  better,  I  think,  though  per- 
chance she  is  like  us  other  mortals,  and  thinks  her 
heart  best  unattended,  and  sees  no  connection  be- 
tween the  twenty-five  tons  of  coal  she  eats  per  day 
and  the  tiny  clink  which  the  speed  recorder  gives 
every  quarter  of  a  mile  on  the  poop.  We  below,  at 
any  rate,  know  all  this,  for  therein  is  the  justification 
of  our  existence.  And  so  our  decorations  must  needs 
wait  till  we  reach  port,  when  the  holds  are  in  travail 
and  the  winches  scream  out  their  agony  to  the  bare 
brown  hills  beyond  the  town  and  mingle  with  the 
deep,  dull  roar  of  the  surf  on  the  barrier  reef. 

And  now  let  me  describe  my  day  at  sea,  as  well  as 
I  am  able.  Different  indeed  from  those  I  was  wont 
to  spend  at  home.  No  delicious  hours  in  our  pet 
hostelries;  no  Sundays  with  music  and  an  open  win- 
dow looking  out  upon  the  river;  no  rollicking  even- 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  31 

ings  in  some  dear  old  tumble-down  studio;  no  mid- 
night rambles  towards  home  down  the  Fulham  Road, 
where  the  ghostly  women  walk;  no  cosy  talks  round 
the  fire  when  the  fog  lies  white  against  the  glass,  while 
the  candle-light  glows  on  the  tall,  warm  rose-wood 
bookcase,  and  all  is  well  with  us.  Nay,  as  eight-bells 
strikes  ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting-ting,  and  the 
hands  of  the  clocks  point  to  twelve  midnight,  I  awake. 
Ten  minutes  before,  George  the  Fourth,  of  whom  I 
may  tell  more  anon,  switches  on  the  light  and  punches 
me  in  the  ribs.  I  turn  over  to  sleep  again,  while 
he  rummages  in  his  berth  for  soap,  towel,  and  clean 
shirt,  and  goes  below.  A  gay,  likeable  lad  is  George 
the  Fourth,  with  bonnie  brown  hair  and  steady  blue 
eyes. 

Mechanically  I  rise  at  twelve,  hustle  on  my 
"dungarees,"  and,  sweat-rag  in  my  teeth,  I  pass  along 
the  deck  beneath  the  stars  which  dust  the  midnight 
dome.  My  friend  the  Mate  is  just  ahead,  as  I  vanish 
through  a  low-arched  doorway  which  shows  black 
against  his  white  paint.  Careful  now;  these  stairs 
are  steep,  and  the  upward-rising  air  is  like  a  gust  of 
the  "stormy  blast  of  hell."  Round  the  low-pressure 
cylinder,  then  down  again — and  we  are  "below." 

The  steady  beat  and  kick  has  become  a  thunderous 
uproar;  by  the  yellow  light  of  the  electrics  you  can 
see  the  engines — my  engines  for  the  next  four  hours. 


32  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

George  is  round  by  the  pumps,  stripped  to  the 
waist,  washing.  He  has  finished;  on  the  black-board 
he  has  recorded  his  steam-pressure,  his  vacuum, 
his  speed  per  minute,  the  temperature  of  his  sea 
water,  his  discharge  water,  and  feed  water;  but 
he  cannot  leave  till  I  have  thumbed  all  bearings, 
noted  all  water  levels,  tried  the  gauges,  and  see  that 
bilges,  pumps,  thrust-block,  tunnel-shaft,  and  stern- 
gland  are  all  right.  And  while  I  do  all  this  I  try  to 
make  out  the  orchestration  of  the  uproar  as  my  friend 
would  some  tremendous  Wagnerian  clangour.  Ah, 
what  would  he  think  of  this,  the  very  heart  of  things, 
if  he  were  but  here? 

Does  George  the  Fourth  feel  the  romance  of  it? 
Not  a  bit.  George  the  Fourth  was  pitch-forked  into 
a  marine  engineering  shop  at  the  ripe  age  of  thirteen. 
He  is  twenty-two  now,  and  carnal  minded.  He 
wants  "siller"  for — well,  not  for  the  Broomielaw. 
He  wants  to  go  "east"  again  to  Singapore,  where  the 
ladies  of  Japan  are  so  charming  and  so  cheap.  The 
only  hope  for  him  is  that  he  may  fall  in  love,  I  pray 
without  ceasing  that  he  may  fall  in  love.  See  the 
young  pagan  lounging  round  by  the  stokehold  door. 
Now  you  will  perceive  what  I  argued  as  to  the  heroic 
nature  of  their  lives. 

"L.P.    Top  end  is  warm,"  I  observe  reproachfully. 

"  'Twas  red-hot  when  it  came  to  me,"  he  exagger- 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  33 

ates  genially,  putting  a  clay  "gun"  in  his  mouth, 
and  adding: 

"Chief  says,  clean  Number  Four  smoke-boxes  fore 
and  aft  yoore  watch,  an'  ta  trimmers  to  tak'  nowt 
fra'  th'  thwart-ship  boonkers." 

Then  he  swings  away,  climbing  the  stairs  with  one 
eye  on  the  engine.  A  goodly  youth,  such  as  we  ad- 
mire; a  magnificent  young  animal  with  possibilities. 

And  then  the  firemen.  I  stand  under  the  venti- 
lator— it  is  cooler — and  I  watch  them  toil.  Think 
well  upon  it,  my  friend.  These  were  men  doing  this 
while  you  were  at  your  German  University,  while 
you  were  travelling  over  Europe  and  storing  your 
mind  with  the  best  of  all  times.  They  are  doing  it 
now,  will  do  it  while  you  are  at  your  work  at  the 
Institute.  They  have  their  business  in  the  great 
waters.  That  little  man  there,  with  two  fingers  of 
his  left  hand  gone,  is  Joe,  a  Welshman  from  his  be- 
loved Abertawe.  Beyond  him,  again,  the  huge  gaunt 
frame  and  battered  deep-sea  cap,  the  draggled  mili- 
tary moustache  surmounted  by  high  cheek-bones, 
the  long,  thin,  sinewy  arms  tattooed  with  French 
dancing-girls — where  shall  our  knowledge  of  the 
nations  place  him?  That  is  Androwsky,  from 
Novorossisk,  in  South  Russia.  A  vast,  silent  man, 
uttering  but  three  or  four  words  a  day.  His  story? 
I  cannot  tell  it,  for  he  never  speaks.  In  my  poor 


34  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

way  I  have  tried  to  get  it  in  German,  but  it  is  no  good. 
In  the  meantime  he  is  almost  the  best  fireman  in  the 
ship.  Indeed,  all  my  men  are  good.  Scarcely  ever 
do  we  have  less  than  full  steam  at  the  end  of  the 
watch. 

And  now,  my  engines!  To  the  uninitiated  it  is,  I 
suppose,  a  tiresome,  bewildering  uproar.  And  yet 
every  component,  every  note  of  this  great  harmony, 
has  a  special  meaning  for  the  engineer;  moreover,  the 
smallest  dissonance  is  detected  at  once,  even  though 
he  be  almost  ready  to  doze.  So  finely  attuned  to 
the  music  does  the  ear  become  that  the  dropping  of  a 
hammer  in  the  stoke-hold,  the  rattling  of  a  chain  on 
deck,  the  rocking  of  a  barrel  in  the  stores,  makes  one 
jump.  It  is  the  same  with  the  eye.  It  is  even  the 
same  with  the  hand.  We  can  tell  in  an  instant  if  a 
bearing  has  warmed  ever  so  slightly  beyond  its  legiti- 
mate temperature.  And  so  it  is  difficult  to  know 
"who  is  the  potter  and  who  the  pot."  The  man  and 
the  machine  are  inextricably  associated,  and  their 
reflex  actions,  one  upon  the  other,  are  infinite.  It  is 
this  extraordinary  intimacy,  this  ceaseless  vigilance 
and  proximity,  that  gives  the  marine  engineer  such 
a  pull  over  all  others  where  endurance  and  resource 
accompany  responsibility.  In  all  big  power-stations 
you  will  find  many  men  with  long  sea  service  in 
charge  of  the  engines. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  35 

I  remember  arguing  once  with  a  matter-of-fact 
apprentice  in  the  shop  concerning  the  suburbs  as 
suitable  localities  for  such  as  he.  He  was  not  con- 
vinced. "There!"  he  said,  slapping  the  shelf  above 
his  bench.  "That's  where  I'd  like  ter  sleep.  All  yer 
gotter  do  at  six  o'clock  is  roll  off  and  turn  to ! "  Well, 
that  is  just  what  he  would  get  at  sea.  In  most 
steamers  the  engineer  walks  out  of  the  mess-room, 
bathroom,  or  berth,  into  an  alley-way  on  either  side 
of  the  engine  platform.  The  beat  of  the  engines 
becomes  part  of  his  environment.  He  sleeps  with  it 
pulsing  in  his  ears,  so  that  if  she  slows  or  stops  he 
opens  his  eyes.  When  I  go  up  at  four  o'clock  and 
call  the  Second  Engineer,  he  will  stretch,  yawn,  half 
open  one  eye,  and  mutter,  "What's  the  steam?" 

To  keep  him  awake  I  retail  some  piece  of  current 
engine  gossip.  "After-bilge  pump  jibbed  at  three 
o'clock,"  I  say.  "Aw  ri'  now?"  he  asks.  "Yes, 
aw  ri'  now,"  I  answer.  "You'll  have  to  watch  the 
M.P.  guide  though — she's  warm."  Then,  remarking 
that  the  after-well  is  dry,  and  that  I've  got  plenty  of 
water  in  the  boilers  for  him,  I  leave  him  and  go  below 
till  he  relieves  me.  It  is  a  point  of  honour  among 
us  to  know  every  kink  and  crotchet  of  day-to-day 
working.  If  a  joint  starts  "blowing"  ever  so  little 
away  up  in  some  obscure  corner  of  our  kingdom,  we 
know  of  it  within  an  hour  or  two.  One  would  think 


3  6  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

we  were  a  mothers'  meeting  discussing  our  babies, 
to  hear  the  grave  tittle-tattle  concerning  the  inevita- 
ble weakness  of  babies  and  engines  which  passes  over 
the  mess-room  table. 

Now  come  with  me  along  the  tunnel,  then,  to  the 
end  of  the  world.  A  narrow,  sliding  water-tight 
door  in  the  bulkhead  here,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
thrust-block — elegance  in  design,  you  will  observe, 
being  strictly  subordinated  to  use.  Follow  carefully 
now,  and  leave  that  shaft  alone.  It  will  not  help 
you  at  all  if  you  slip.  The  music  has  died  away, 
only  a  solemn  clonk-clonk — clonk-clonk  reverberates 
through  this  narrow,  Norman-arched  catacomb.  At 
length  we  emerge  into  a  larger  vaulted  chamber, 
where  the  air  is  singularly  fresh — but  I  forgot.  I  am 
not  writing  a  smugglers'  cave  story.  We  are  under 
an  air-shaft  running  up  to  the  poop-deck,  and  we  may 
go  no  further.  The  fourteen-inch  shaft  disappears 
through  a  gland,  and,  just  beyond  that  is  the  eighteen- 
foot  propeller  whirling  in  the  blue  ocean  water. 
Here,  for  us,  is  the  great  First  Cause.  Of  the  illimit- 
able worlds  of  marine  flora  and  fauna  outside  these 
riveted  steel  walls  the  sailor-man  knows  nothing  and 
cares  less.  What  are  called  "the  wonders  of  the 
deep  "  have  no  part  in  the  life  of  the  greatest  wonder 
of  the  deep — the  seaman. 

And  when  the  propeller  drops  away,  as  it  does 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  37 

sometimes — drops  "down  to  the  dark,  to  the  utter  dark, 
where  the  blind  white  sea-snakes  are*' — there  goes  out 
from  that  ship  all  life,  all  motion.  Even  as  the  mass 
of  metal  plunges  downward  and  as  the  frenzied  en- 
gineer rushes  through  blinding  steam  and  water  to 
stop  the  engines  in  their  panic  rush,  the  spirit  of  the 
vessel  goes  out  of  her  in  a  great  sigh.  With  dampered 
ash-pits  her  fires  blacken  and  go  out,  the  idle  steering- 
engine  clanks  and  rattles  as  the  useless  rudder  tugs 
at  her  chains,  and  the  crew  tell  in  whispers  how  it 
happened  just  like  that  on  the  Gipsy  Queen,  out  of 
Sunderland,  or  the  Gerard  Dow,  out  of  Antwerp. 
All  of  which  is  not  to  be  learned  in  the  study  at 
home.  Let  us  get  back  to  the  engine-room. 

I  am  curious  to  know  how  all  this  would  strike  my 
friend  at  home.  Would  it  not,  as  Henley  used  to 
say,  give  him  much  to  perpend  ?  I  hear  him  mutter 
that  phrase  we  talked  out  once,  at  the  tea-table — 
"The  Age  of  Mechanism."  But  why  not  an  Age  of 
Heroism?  Mind,  I  use  this  latter  word  in  its  true 
sense  as  I  use  the  word  Hero.  For  some  occult  rea- 
son, known  only  to  Brixton  and  Peckham  Rye,  a  hero 
is  the  person  who  jumps  into  the  Thames  and  pulls  a 
woman  out,  or  the  interesting  inanity  of  a  popular 
serial.  There  is  nothing  essentially  heroic  in  life- 
saving.  Indeed,  all  the  old  heroes  of  Norseland, 
Rome,  and  Greece  regarded  the  saving  of  life  with  a 


3  8  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

contempt  that  was  only  natural  when  we  consider 
the  utter  lack  of  board  schools  and  their  frantic  belief 
in  a  hereafter.  I  imagine  the  Norse  Sea-kings  who 
pushed  out  to  Vine-land — aye,  even  down  to  Cape 
Cod — would  have  been  puzzled  to  hear  an  undersized 
clerk  who  had  saved  a  man  from  a  watery  grave 
described  as  a  hero.  Their  method  was  to  pull  the 
drowning  wretch  out  with  a  boat-hook,  and  curse  him 
for  being  so  clumsy  as  to  fall  in.  Eric  the  Red  never 
worried  about  a  sailor  who  had  the  bad  judgment 
to  be  washed  overside  during  the  night.  Hercules 
would  have  felt  outraged  had  the  Royal  Humane 
Society  of  the  period  loaded  him  down  with  their 
medals.  Achilles  would  as  soon  have  thought  of 
committing  the  interminable  catalogue  of  the  Grecian 
Ships  to  memory  as  of  associating  the  saving  of  life 
with  the  heroic.  I  am  not  suggesting  that  these 
heroes  are  more  worthy  of  emulation  than  a  life-saver; 
I  only  want  to  explain  that  there  is,  in  our  day,  a  race 
of  beings,  half-man,  half-god,  who  correspond,  in  all 
broad  characteristics,  to  those  rather  indecent  heroes 
of  early  imaginative  literature.  They  do  with  ease 
those  deeds  which  would  have  appalled  the  mailed 
monsters  of  chivalry;  they  regard  the  other  sex  as 
being  created  solely  for  their  use  in  port;  they  love  life 
dearly,  but  they  leave  the  saving  of  it,  like  the  heroes 
of  old,  to  the  gods. 


39 

One  has  only  to  listen  (in  the  galley)  to  their 
nonchalantly  narrated  tales  of  mystery  and  horror  to 
realize  the  truth  of  that  argument.  A  steady  mono- 
tone is  the  key  of  their  telling,  their  voices  rising  only 
to  hammer  home  some  particularly  horrific  detail. 
Sometimes,  in  the  clangour  of  the  engine-room,  they 
will  relate  perilous  misadventures  at  sea,  or  ludicrous 
entanglements  in  sunny  southern  ports.  But  they 
never  waste  breath  in  elaboration  or  "atmosphere." 
They  leave  that  to  the  nervous  listener.  They  know 
nothing  of  the  artistic  values  of  their  virile  tales. 
They  do  not  know  they  are  only  carrying  on  the 
tradition  of  the  men  of  all  time  since  Homer.  They 
fling  you  the  fine  gold  of  their  own  lives,  and  wallow 
in  the  tittle-tattle  of  lady-novelists  and  Reynolds' s. 
They  seethe  with  admiration  for  Captain  Kettle's 
amazing  manoeuvres,  while  the  shipping  offices  are 
papered  with  lists  of  those  who  are  too  indolent  or  too 
forgetful  to  claim  their  service  medals  from  the 
Government. 

VIII 

I  REMEMBER,  in  the  grey  dawn  one  day  last  week, 
my  relief  sang  in  my  ear  as  he  wiped  his  hands  after 
"feeling  round,"  " Deutschland' s  astern,  goin'  like 
fury."  "Sure?"  I  asked.  "Only  boat  with  four 
funnels  in  the  line,"  he  said.  Four  funnels!  I  raced 


4o  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

up  and  aft,  and  saw  her.  Some  three  miles  astern 
going  westward,  going  grandly.  From  each  of  her 
enormous  funnels  belched  vast  clouds  of  black  smoke 
till  she  looked  like  some  Yorkshire  township  afloat. 
Through  glasses  I  could  see  the  dome  of  the  immense 
dining  saloon,  and  the  myriad  port-holes  in  her  wall- 
like  side.  I  could  see  her  moving  fast,  though  so  far 
away.  As  the  head  sea  caught  the  massive  bows, 
she  never  waited.  Her  35,000  h.p.  drove  her  crash- 
ing through  them,  and  they  broke  high  in  air  in 
clouds  of  foam.  Splendid!  I  thought.  But  my 
heart  was  with  those  "below."  Think  of  the  toil! 
Six  or  seven  hundred  tons  of  coal  per  day  is  flung 
into  her  dozens  of  furnaces,  against  our  twenty-five 
tons.  Think  of  the  twenty-odd  engineers  who 
scarcely  see  their  bunks  from  the  Elbe  to  the  Hudson. 
And,  in  that  cool,  grey,  pearly  dawn,  think  of  those 
passengers  sleeping  in  their  palatial  state-rooms, 
with  never  a  thought  of  the  slaves  who  drive  that 
monstrous  ship  across  the  Atlantic  at  such  an  appall- 
ing speed.  I  say  "appalling"  because  I  know. 
The  smoking-room  nuisance  will  say,  "Pooh!  My 
dear  fellow,  the  Lusitania  licks  us  clean  with  her 
twenty-five  knots."  He  is  coldly  critical  because  he 
does  not  know. 

But  I  digress. 

Look   around   now.     You   observe  we   lose   very 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  41 

little  space  in  gangways.  Even  in  front  of  the  en- 
gines, where  we  are  walking  to  and  fro,  the  space  is 
perilously  narrow  between  the  fly-wheel  of  the  revers- 
ing engine  and  the  lathe.  Some  thirty  feet  long,  this 
engine-room,  bulkhead  to  bulkhead,  and,  save  for  a 
recess  or  two  extending  to  the  ship's  skin,  penned  in 
between  bunkers.  Twelve  hundred  tons  of  coal, 
distributed  like  a  thick  wall  round  us,  make  the  place 
warm  in  the  tropics.  Forward,  the  stoke-holds, 
dimly  enough  lit  save  when  a  furnace  door  opens  and 
a  fiery  glow  illuminates  the  bent  back  and  soot- 
blurred  face  of  some  cosmopolitan  fireman.  Over- 
head, each  lit  by  a  single  lamp,  are  the  water-gauges 
— green  glass  tubes  in  which  the  water  ebbs  and  flows 
with  the  motion  of  the  ship. 

Well,  the  time  is  going  fast — 'twill  soon  be  four 
o'clock,  eight  bells,  and  I  am  relieved.  What  do  I 
think  of  on  "watch"?  That's  a  question!  The 
engines  chiefly,  with  an  under-current  of  "other 
things."  Often  and  often,  in  the  dark  nooks  of  my 
dominions,  will  I  see  the  glimmering,  phantom 
light-o'-love.  Sometimes  it  will  come  and  sit  beside 
me  if  all  runs  smooth,  and  then  I  fly  across  the  broad 
blue  floors  of  the  tropic  night  sky  towards  England. 
Not  that  my  fairy  elf  is  a  fair-weather  friend. 
Through  blinding  oil  and  sweat  I  have  seen  grey  eyes 
smile  and  a  white  hand  beckon.  In  times  of  trial 


42  ,47V  OCEAN  TRAMP 

and  sore  need  I  have  turned  desperately  towards  that 
faery  glimmer,  and  never  have  I  come  back  unen- 
couraged  or  unrefreshed. 

Of  my  friend,  too,  I  think  often,  as  I  know  he 
thinks  of  me.  Of  our  dear  old  rooms  on  the  Walk; 
of  our  cosy  evenings  alone;  of  our  rambles  in  search 
of  the  Perfect  Pub  (where,  he  told  me,  they  sold 
hot  rum  up  to  3  a.  m.) ;  of  the  Chelsea  Freaks,  who 
add  so  unconsciously  to  the  gaiety  of  the  nations — 
how  I  have  laughed  incontinently,  and  how  some 
fireman's  face  would  brighten  when  I  laughed, 
though  he  knew  not  the  reason ! 

Of  books,  too,  I  have  many  thoughts;  which  re- 
minds me  that  one  cannot  imagine  how  different  are 
the  "values"  of  books,  out  here  at  sea,  to  their  values 
at  home  in  the  metropolis.  To  steal  a  phrase  from 
chemistry,  their  "valency"  alters.  Their  relative 
"combining  weights"  seem  to  vary;  by  which  I 
mean,  their  applicability  to  life,  their  vital  import- 
ance to  me  as  a  man,  changes.  This  change,  more- 
over, is  all  in  favour  of  the  classics.  One  sees 
through  shams  more  quickly — at  least,  I  think 
so.  Books  which  I  could  always  respect,  yet  never 
touch,  now  come  forth  and  show  their  glories  to 
me.  My  own  past  work,  too,  drops  pathetically  into 
its  own  place.  And  that  is?  Spare  me  this  con- 
fession ! 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  43 

One  night,  one  star-light  night,  when  the  dark  blue 
heaven,  slashed  across  with  the  pale  immensity  of  the 
Milky  Way,  watched  me  with  its  million  winking  eyes, 
I  stole  out  on  the  poop  with  some  stories  in  my  hand, 
and  dropped  them  into  the  creamy  rush  of  the  wake. 
As  the  poor  little  bits  of  paper  swayed  and  eddied  and 
drowned  in  the  foaming  vortex,  I  felt,  deep  down  in 
that  heart  which  some  say  I  do  not  possess,  a  vague 
tremor  of  unrest.  I  felt,  somehow,  close  to  Eter- 
nity. And  then,  as  I  went  below  once  more,  I 
wondered,  "Will  they  all  go  like  that ?"~  "Shall  I 
live  to  do  any  good  work?"  Oh,  the  terrible  sadness 
of  Noble  Attempts!  How  I  toiled  at  those  stories! 
And  all  for  nothing.  Flung,  like  the  ashes  from  our 
furnaces,  like  the  rubbish  from  our  larders,  into  the 
cruel  oblivion  of  the  unheeding  sea. 

IX 

SUCH  is  the  mood  which  comes  over  me  at  times 
when  the  pettiness  of  the  past  starts  up  in  the  pres- 
ence of  these  immensities  of  sea  and  sky.  M.,  you 
know,  when  he  would  come  back  to  his  studio  from 
some  yachting  cruise  in  the  Channel,  and  find  me 
in  his  armchair,  would  drag  me  out  to  look  at  the 
ceaselessly  changing  glories  of  the  river  at  sunset, 
and  tell  me  how  the  vastness  of  the  sea  always  com- 


44  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

municated  to  him  an  overwhelming  sense  of  the 
Power  of  God. 

"You  can't  get  away  from  it,  old  man,"  he  would 
say.  "Out  there  alone,  man  is  nothing,  God  is 
everything."  Why  could  I  never  assent  to  that? 
Why,  when  people  ask  me  if  I  love  the  sea,  am  I 
silent?  Well,  have  you  ever  heard  the  sudden  yap- 
ping of  a  puppy  at  night?  Imagine  it,  then,  at 
sea.  The  two  Immensities  between  which  we  creep : 
the  sea  flashing  with  her  own  secret  glory  of  phos- 
phorescent fire,  the  sky  emblazoned  with  her  count- 
less diadems,  and  then — yap-yap-yap!  That  is  how 
the  pestilent  cackle  of  many  people  affects  me  when 
they  rave  about  the  sea.  Why  do  they  not  keep 
silent,  like  the  stars?  God!  These  fools,  I  think, 
would  clatter  up  the  steps  of  the  Great  White 
Throne,  talking,  talking,  talking!  When  the  pearly 
gates  swing  wide  to  let  us  in,  when  we  pace  the  bur- 
nished vistas  towards  the  Presence,  when  the  measure- 
less music  of  the  Most  High  God  fills  our  hearts — 
yap-yap-yap  I 

Music,  I  said!  I  think  I  stand  towards  music  as  I 
stand  towards  sea  and  sky.  Oh,  I  could  squirm  when  I 
think  of  the  bickerings  I  have  had  with  music-lovers. 
And  yet  with  you,  my  friend,  prince  of  music-lovers, 
I  have  had  no  quarrel.  Because,  I  think,  you  let 
me  alone.  When  you  feel  in  the  mood,  when  the 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  45 

moon  is  on  the  river,  and  the  warm  breeze  gently 
sways  the  curtains  by  the  open  window,  you  will  sit 
down  and  improvise,  and  I  will  lie  in  my  deep  chair, 
and  smoke  and  dream.  You  cease,  and  say  "Do  you 
like  it?"  and  I  am  silent. 

Then  you  laugh  and  go  on  again.  You  under- 
stand. But  what  maniacal  frenzy  is  this  which 
demands  a  vociferous  "passionate  love  of  music" 
from  everyone?  Watch  the  current  dish-water 
fiction.  Every  character,  male  and  female,  is  "pas- 
sionately fond  of  music."  Which  means?  That  the 
readers  of  this  stuff  consider  a  passionate  love  of 
music  to  be  fashionable.  It  is  so  easy,  you  see,  to 
possess  it.  There  is  no  need  to  study  either  musical 
theory,  practice,  history,  or  biography.  An  inane 
expression  of  vacuous  content  when  music  is  being 
rendered,  a  quantity  of  rhapsodical  rubbish  about 
Chopin  and  Beethoven  without  any  knowledge  of 
either,  and  behold!  a  lover  of  music.  Yap-yap- 
yap  I 

With  all  this,  I  know,  you  agree,  but  you  ask  your- 
self, as  you  read,  what  has  this  to  do  with  a  marine 
engineer's  working  day?  It  has  everything  to  do 
with  it.  It  has  everything  to  do  with  the  working 
day  of  every  man.  For  this  indiscriminate  belauding 
of  the  love  of  music  leads  to  an  almost  unimaginable 
hypocrisy  among  those  who  do  not  think.  Cer- 


46  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

tainly,  Music  is  the  highest  of  the  Arts,  and  the  old- 
est, just  (I  presume)  as  Astronomy  is  the  highest  and 
most  ancient  science.  One  is  pure  form,  the  other 
pure  mathematics.  And  so,  I  may  conclude,  the 
"Music  of  the  Spheres"  comprises  all  that  is  highest 
and  purest  and  truest  within  our  comprehension. 
But  this  fashionable,  open-mouthed  delirium  is  no 
more  a  worship  of  music  than  star-gazing  is  serious 
astronomy.  These  hypocrites  are  sailing  under  false 
colours.  I  noticed,  when  I  once  suggested  at  a 
dinner-table  the  cultivation  of  the  tin  whistle,  amuse- 
ment among  the  men,  and  titters  among  the  women. 
When  I  asked  why  old  Pan's  instrument  should  be  so 
bespattered  with  ridicule,  they  were  instantly  serious, 
as  is  their  habit  when  you  mention  any  one  who  has 
passed  away.  You  see  my  point?  I  protest  against 
this  nasty  slime  of  hypocrisy  which  is  befouling  every 
part  of  our  intellectual  and  national  life.  We  love 
the  sea,  we  old  sea-dogs,  descendants  (we  proudly 
think)  of  the  mighty  Norsemen — we  love  it  from 
Brighton  Beach.  We  love  Sport,  do  we  who  sneer 
at  Frenchmen  because  they  cannot  play  football — 
we  love  it  from  the  closely  packed  amphitheatres  of 
the  race-course  and  footer-field,  as  spectators.  We 
love  War — with  a  penny  flag  and  a  yell  in  front  of 
the  Mansion  House.  We  love  Children,  for  we 
leave  them  to  dwell  in  slums.  And  we  love  Music 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  47 

with  all  our  hearts,  because  we  were  told  that  we  did, 
and  the  wise  repeat  that  it  elevates  and  refines  the 
soul. 

X 

I  AM  disappointed  with  the  meagre  letter  my  friend 
sends  me,  "in  haste"!  Disappointed  and  surprised 
withal,  inasmuch  as  he  finds  time  to  say,  hastily 
enough,  "Give  me  of  your  best;  describe,  toujours, 
describe!"  To  which  I  can  only  reply,  "Humph!" 
Mon  ami,  I  do  not  write  for  the  sake  of  showing  off 
my  penmanship,  nor  my  authorship.  When  I  have 
time,  I  lie  down,  on  my  stuffed-seaweed  bed,  and 
write  my  thoughts  leisurely  and  enjoyably.  A  letter 
is  something  which  would  not  be  set  down  if  the  two 
persons  concerned  were  within  speaking  distance. 
The  mere  fact  that  I  endeavour  to  give  my  jottings 
some  rude  literary  finish  proves  nothing  to  the  con- 
trary. When  we  are  gathered  together  round  the 
fire  or  the  tea-table,  the  same  thing  obtains.  The 
difference  between  conversation  and  tittle-tattle  lies 
in  the  participants  of  the  former  giving  a  finish  to 
their  contributions,  watching  for  points,  keeping  the 
main  channel  of  conversation  clear  of  the  lumber  of 
extraneous  witticism  and  personalities,  gradually 
leading  the  timid  to  think  and,  later,  to  express  their 
thoughts,  using  the  learning  which  they  have  ac- 


48  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

quired  in  secret  for  the  edification  or  building-up  of 
us  all. 

I  remember  how,  when  young  H visited  our 

anchorage,  he  sat  silent  and  abashed  while  we  thun- 
dered and  declaimed  about  his  bewildered  head. 
And  then,  when  the  conversation  moved,  naturally 
enough,  from  education  to  religion,  from  religion  to 
science,  and  from  science  to  evolution,  I  noticed  how, 
so  to  speak,  he  pricked  up  his  ears.  He  was  thinking 
then,  trying  to  realize,  however  faintly,  that  inside 
him  was  something  different  to  anything  inside  us. 
His  Catholic  training,  his  sequestered  up-bringing,  his 
entomological  studies,  his  intellectual  resiliency,  so 
deftly  utilized  by  the  Society  of  Jesus — all  these  came 
gradually  into  view,  and  we  found  truth,  which  is 
perfected  praise,  emanating  from  the  babe  by  whom, 
I  had  been  assured,  we  were  to  be  bored  to  distraction. 

We  realize  only  too  little  what  has  been  lost 
through  the  decay  of  conversation.  "Come,  let  us 
reason  together."  And  "letters"  are  only  a  form  of 
reasoning  together  adapted  to  our  special  needs, 
gaining  perhaps  some  added  pathos  from  the  implied 
separation  of  kindred  souls,  and  a  further  value  from 
the  permanence  and  potential  artistry  of  the  form 
itself.  It  is  not  incumbent  upon  us  to  be  very  deep 
in  the  eighteenth  century  to  remark  that,  with  con- 
versation, letter-writing  dwindles  and  dies  before 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  49 

the  rush  of  mechanism  and  trade.  It  is  easy  to  see 
the  reason  of  this.  Mechanism  and  trade  are  ex- 
pressions of  dissatisfaction  with  one's  circumstances. 
Men  used  machines  to  make  and  carry  commodities, 
not  because  they  felt  the  exquisite  joy  of  making, 
or  the  still  higher  joy  of  giving,  but  because  they,  or 
their  wives,  wanted  larger  houses,  more  splendid 
equipages,  more  sumptuous  provender.  Conversa- 
tion, on  the  other  hand,  implies  leisure  and  content- 
ment of  mind.  I  do  not  mean  idlers  and  persons  of 
no  ambition.  Neither  of  these  classes  ever  wrote 
letters  or  shone  in  conversations. 

So,  musing  upon  my  friend's  hasty  screed,  I  wonder 
how  I  am,  in  very  truth,  to  give  him  of  my  best. 
True,  I  know  from  that  hint  that  he  is  fighting  with 
beasts  at  Ephesus  to  get  his  play  into  working,  or 
rather  playing  order.  This  is  sufficient  to  make  me 
forgive  my  friend.  But  consider  in  future,  mon  ami, 
that  your  letters  are  the  only  conversation  I  can 
enjoy  out  here,  for  the  heroes  with  whom  I  toil  know 
not  the  art. 

XI 

THE  transition  of  a  great  nation  from  barbarism  to 
an  elementary  form  of  culture  is  always  interesting. 
So,  too,  is  the  same  transition  in  the  case  of  a  "great 
profession."  In  1840,  when  the  propulsion  of  ships 


So  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

by  means  of  a  steam-driven  screw  opened  a  new  era 
in  maritime  history,  the  "practical  man"  in  the  en- 
gineering trade  was  an  uneducated  savage.  Possess- 
ing no  trade  union,  no  voice  in  Parliament,  no  means 
of  educating  himself  in  the  intricate  theory  of  the 
machinery  he  helped  to  build,  the  mechanic  of  sixty 
years  ago  was  regarded  by  those  above  him  in  the 
social  scale  merely  as  a  "hand."  When,  therefore, 
steamships  became  common,  and  men  were  needed 
to  operate  and  care  for  the  propelling  mechanism, 
they  were  naturally  drawn  from  the  ranks  of  me- 
chanics who  were  employed  in  the  works  to  construct 
it.  Stokers  were  enlisted,  in  a  similar  way,  from 
those  working  on  land-boilers.  Here,  then,  were  two 
new  classes  of  seamen,  corresponding  very  largely  to 
the  officers  and  sailors  of  a  sailing-ship.  To  the  un- 
biassed judgment,  it  went  without  saying  that  the 
engineer  on  watch  would  take  rank  with  the  navigat- 
ing officer  on  watch;  but  the  old  school  of  mariners, 
the  school  whose  ideas  of  progress  are  crystallised  for 
all  time  in  the  historic  report  of  certain  Admiralty 
Lords  that  "steam  power  would  never  be  of  any  prac- 
tical use  in  Her  Majesty's  Navy,"  thought  differently . 
In  their  opinion,  the  engineer  was  the  same  as  a 
stoker,  and  from  that  day  almost  to  this  the  deck- 
officer  who  served  his  time  in  a  sailing-ship  secretly 
regards  the  engineers  of  his  steamer  as  upstarts 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  51 

more  or  less,  whose  position  and  pay  are  a  gross 
encroachment  upon  his  own  more  ancient  privi- 
leges. 

A  little  consideration  will  show  that  there  was  some 
reason  for  this  feeling  in  the  beginning.  In  the  case 
of  the  Royal  Navy,  the  aggravation  was  particularly 
acute.  The  deck-officers,  then  as  now,  were  sons  of 
gentlemen,  were  members  of  an  ancient  and  honour- 
able service,  a  service  included  among  that  select 
quaternity,  to  be  outside  of  which  was  to  be  a  nonen- 
tity— the  Navy,  the  Army,  the  Church,  and  the  Bar. 
The  naval  officer,  then  as  now,  did  not  soil  his  hands, 
wore  a  sword,  and  was  swathed  in  an  inextricable 
meshwork  of  red  tape,  service  codes,  and  High  Tory- 
ism. He  had  his  own  peculiar  notions  of  studying  a 
profession,  looked  askance  at  the  new-fangled  method 
of  driving  a  ship,  honestly  thinking,  with  Ruskin, 
that  a  "floating  kettle"  was  a  direct  contravention  of 
the  laws  of  God.  Imagine,  then,  the  aristocratic 
consternation  of  these  honourable  gentlemen  when 
the  care  and  maintenance  of  propelling  machinery, 
auxiliary  mechanism,  and  also  guns  and  gun- 
mountings,  were  gradually  transferred  to  a  body  of 
men  of  low  social  extraction,  uncultured  and  un- 
polished land-lubbers  and  civilians!  Only  within  the 
last  twenty  years  have  naval  engineer  officers,  now 
drawn  from  the  same  social  strata  as  the  navigating 


52  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

officers,  won  official  recognition  of  their  importance 
in  the  personnel  of  a  ship. 

In  the  case  of  the  engineers  of  the  Mercantile 
Marine  the  struggle  has  been  the  same,  though  by 
no  means  so  bitter  or  so  sustained.  The  reasons  for 
this  are  two. 

In  the  first  place,  the  navigating  officers  of  a  mer- 
chantman are  merely  the  employees  of  civilians — the 
shipowners.  In  the  second  place,  the  Board  of 
Trade,  by  compelling  shipowners  to  carry  a  certain 
number  of  navigators  and  engineers  holding  certifi- 
cates of  competency,  have  placed  them  on  one 
professional  level.  Nevertheless,  the  animosity  be- 
tween the  mates  and  the  shrewd,  greasy,  sea-going 
engineer  was  keen  enough,  sharpened  no  doubt  by 
the  preponderating  wages  of  the  latter.  Again,  the 
former's  habits  of  deference  and  mute  obedience  to 
the  master,  at  once  navigator,  agent,  and  magistrate 
of  the  ship,  were  not  readily  assimilated  by  the  engi- 
neer, whose  democratic  consciousness  was  just  then 
rising  into  being,  and  whose  mechanical  instincts 
were  outraged  by  the  sailor's  ignorant  indifference  to 
the  knowledge  and  unremitting  vigilance  demanded 
by  the  machinery  in  his  care. 

It  is  in  this  fashion  that  a  class  of  men  like  my 
Chief  have  developed.  Born  of  the  lower  middle 
class,  the  artisan  class,  apprenticed  to  their  trade  at 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  53 

twelve  or  thirteen  years  of  age,  and,  on  going  to  sea, 
suddenly  finding  themselves  in  possession  of  a  definite 
uniform  and  rank  with  a  fixed  watch  and  routine, 
their  natural  instinct  leads  them  to  do  their  utmost 
to  "live  up"  to  their  new  dignity.  In  course  of  time, 
after  a  certain  minimum  of  sea  service,  and  an  un- 
broken record  of  efficiency  and  good  behaviour,  the 
Board  of  Trade  examiner  affixes  his  stamp  on  the  fin- 
ished product,  and  the  youth  ventures  on  matrimony 
and  indulges  in  dreams  of  rising  in  the  world.  His 
travelling  has  given  his  mind  a  certain  shallow  breadth 
of  outlook;  he  will  discuss  Italian  art  with  you,  al- 
though his  knowledge  of  Italy  is  confined  to  the  low 
parts  of  Genoa  and  Naples,  with  perhaps  a  visit  to  the 
Campo  Santo  of  the  former.  He  has  acquired  the 
reading  habit,  perforce,  at  sea,  though  his  authors 
would  be  considered  dubious  by  the  educated;  and  a 
smattering  of  some  other  language,  generally  Spanish, 
is,  in  his  own  opinion,  good  reason  for  holding  himself 
above  the  common  mechanic  ashore.  His  salary  as  a 
chief  engineer  enables  his  wife  to  keep  a  servant  and 
buy  superior  garments;  he  puts  money  by,  and  in 
the  course  of  time  solidifies  his  position  as  a  genuine 
bourgeois.  In  the  meantime  he  exhales  Smiles.  He 
believes  in  Rising  in  the  World.  He  would  blot  out 
a  perfectly  inoffensive,  if  ignoble,  ancestry,  and  he 
would  also,  if  he  could,  make  friends  with  English 


54  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Grammar.  But  how  can  I  hope  for  his  success  in 
the  latter  struggle  when  the  books  he  borrows  from 
my  little  store  are  returned  uncut.  Possibly  the  col- 
ourless eyes,  which  survey  me  over  the  retrousse  nose 
and  deceptive  moustache,  are  capable  of  gathering 
wisdom  from  the  uncut  fields  of  learning.  And  yet, 
and  yet,  have  I  not  unintentionally  surprised  him  in 
his  cabin  devouring  "The  Unwritten  Command- 
ment" or  "The  Lady's  Realm,"  while  my  Aristo- 
phanes is  on  the  settee  ?  I  do  not  blame  a  sea-going 
engineer  for  disliking  Aristophanes.  Many  agricul- 
tural labourers  would  find  him  uninforming.  But 
why  borrow  him  and  simulate  a  cultured  interest  in 
his  plays? 

My  friend,  I  think,  abhors  blatant  uxoriousness. 
So  do  I.  And  I  fear  the  Most  Wonderful  Man  on 
Earth  is  blatantly  uxorious.  I  honour  him  for  a  cer- 
tain sadness  in  his  voice  when  he  speaks  of  unrequited 
love.  But  his  constant  reference  to  Ibsen's  motif 
in  the  "Wild  Duck,"  though  it  fails  in  its  primary 
object  of  convincing  me  that  he  is  familiar  with 
Ibsen's  plays,  does  in  truth  tell  me  that  some  fair 
one  gave  him  sleepless  nights. 

Of  course,  this  amusing  assumption  would  not 
stand  a  single  hour  in  a  cultured  circle.  Some 
periodicals  of  the  day  foster  the  fallacy  in  many 
an  unfortunate  mind  that  to  read  about  a  book  is 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  55 

really  quite  as  good  as  actually  to  read  it.  Their 
readers  are  led  to  infer  that  learning  is  quite  a  spare- 
time  affair.  I  once  assured  a  victim  of  this  delusion 
that  in  true  culture  there  was  no  threepence-in-the- 
shilling  discount;  and  he  wrinkles  his  brows  yet,  I 
believe,  wondering  what  I  meant.  How  many  years 
of  close  study,  my  friend,  are  required  to  enable  one 
to  stroll  through  a  second-hand  bookshop,  pick  up  the 
one  treasure  from  the  shelves,  and  walk  out  again? 
It  may  be,  perchance,  that  I  labour  this  trait  in 
the  character  of  one  who  would  be  great  but  for  his 
disabilities.  Which  thought  recalls  to  my  mind  a 
suspicion  that  intermittently  haunts  me — that,  living 
as  we  do  here  on  this  ocean  tramp, "thrown together," 
as  the  phrase  goes,  so  constantly,  faults  in  another 
man  grow  more  and  more  apparent;  social  abrasions 
which  would  be  smoothed  down  and  forgotten  ashore 
are  roughened  at  each  fresh  encounter,  until  the  man 
is  hidden  behind  one  flaming  sin.  Especially  is  this 
to  be  expected  when  mind  and  body  are  worn,  the  one 
with  responsibility,  the  other  with  rough  toil.  Who 
am  I  that  I  should  claim  cultured  intercourse  from 
these  heroes?  Have  I  not  shared  their  agony  and 
bloody  sweat  in  times  of  storm  and  stress  ?  Have  I 
not  seen  this  same  wearer  of  elevators  in  his  engine- 
room,  a  blood-stained  handkerchief  across  his  head 
where  he  has  been  "smashed,"  the  sweat  running 


56  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

from  his  blackened   features,  watching  his  engines 
with  an  agony  no  young  mother  ever  knew? 

What  of  the  time  when  our  main  steam  pipe  burst 
in  the  Irish  Sea  in  a  fog?  Read  in  the  Chief  Mate's 
log  an  entry,  "Delayed  2  hrs.  40  min.,  breakdown  in 
engine-room"  Simple,  isn't  it?  But  behind  those 
brief  words  lies  a  small  hell  for  the  Chief  Engineer. 
Behind  them  lies  two  hours  and  forty  minutes'  fren- 
zied toil  in  the  heat  of  the  boiler-tops,  where  the 
arched  bunkers  keep  the  air  stifling;  two  hours  and 
forty  minutes'  work  with  tools  that  race  and  slither  to 
the  rolling  of  the  ship,  with  bolts  that  burn  and  blister, 
with  steam  that  knows  no  master  when  she's  loose. 
Literature  ?  Art  ?  Old  friend,  these  gods  seem  very 
impotent  sometimes.  They  seem  impotent,  as  when, 
for  instance,  my  first  gauge-glass  burst.  Pacing  up 
and  down  in  front  of  my  engines,  there  is  a  hiss  and 
a  roar,  and  one  of  my  firemen  rushes  into  the  engine- 
room,  his  right  hand  clasping  the  left  shoulder  con- 
vulsively. He  has  been  cut  to  the  bone  with  a 
piece  of  the  flying  glass.  Men  of  thirty  years'  sea- 
time  tell  me  they  never  have  got  used  to  a  glass  fail- 
ing. And  then  the  fight  with  the  water  and  steam  in 
the  darkness,  the  frenzied  groping  for  the  wires  to 
shut  the  cocks,  the  ceaseless  roar  of  water  and  steam! 
A  look  at  the  engines,  an  adjustment  of  the  feed- 
valves,  lest  the  water  get  low  while  I  am  fitting  a  new 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  57 

glass,  and  then  to  work.  How  glad  one  is  when  one 
sees  that  luminous  ring,  which  denotes  the  water- 
level,  rise  "two-thirds  glass"  once  more!  And  how 
far  from  the  fine  arts  is  he  whose  life  is  one  long 
succession  of  incidents  like  these?  Can  they  blame 
us  if  we  look  indulgently  upon  mere  writers  and 
painters?  Surely,  when  the  books  are  opened  and 
the  last  log  is  read,  when  the  overlooker  calls  our 
names  and  reads  out  the  indictment  "Lacking  cul- 
ture," we  may  stand  up  manfully  and  answer  as  clearly 
as  we  can,  "Lord,  we  had  our  business  in  great 
waters." 

XII 

IN  SUCH  wise,  I  imagine,  will  George  the  Fourth 
reply.  He  is  an  admirable  foil  to  the  Most  Wonder- 
ful Man  on  Earth.  He  regales  you  with  no  false 
sentiment;  he  is  five  feet  ten  in  his  socks,  and  he  is 
clamorously  indignant  when  you  suggest  that  he 
will  one  day  "get  married."  He  considers  love  to  be 
"damned  foolishness,"  and  despises  "womanisers." 
He  likes  "tarts,"  has  one  in  most  ports  of  the  Atlantic 
sea-board,  and  even  writes  to  a  certain  Mexican 
enchantress,  who  lives  in  a  nice  little  room  over  a 
nice  little  shop  in  a  nice  little  street  in  the  nice  little 
town  of  Vera  Cruz.  What  does  he  write?  Frankly 
I  don't  know.  What  does  he  say,  when  he  has  dressed 


58  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

himself  in  dazzling  white  raiment  and  goes  ashore  in 
Surabaya  or  Singapore,  and  sits  down  to  tea  with 
Japanese  girls  whose  eyes  are  swollen  with  belladonna 
and  whose  touch  communicates  fire?  How  can  I 
answer  ? 

"George,"  I  say,  "what  would  your  mother 
think?" 

George  is  not  communicative.  He  flicks  ash  from 
his  cigarette  and  picks  up  a  month-old  Reynolds'** 
And  that  is  a  sufficient  answer  to  my  accusations, 
though  he  does  not  realize  it.  I,  at  any  rate,  have 
not  the  face  to  upbraid  a  lonely  youth,  without  home 
or  girl  friends  from  one  year's  end  to  another,  when  in 
that  same  Reynolds' s  I  see  page  after  page  of  "cases." 
If  these  people  swerve,  if  they  break  the  tables  of  the 
law  every  week,  surely  George  the  Fourth  may  hold 
up  his  head.  You  see,  in  Geordie-land,  in  the  ports 
of  Tyne  and  Wear,  where  George  the  Fourth  was 
bred,  there  are  many  engineers  who  have  been  out  in 
steamers  working  up  and  down  the  China  coast,  who 
have  had  nice  little  homes  in  Hankow,  Hong-Hong, 
or  Shanghai,  with  Japanese  wives  all  complete. 
Then  when  the  charter  was  up,  and  the  steamer  came 
home,  these  practical  men  left  homes  and  wives 
behind  them,  and  all  was  just  as  before.  That  is 
George's  dream.  "China  or  Burma  coast-trade. 
That's  the  job  for  me  when  I  get  ma  tickut,"  It  is 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  59 

useless  for  a  stern  moralist  like  me  to  argue,  because 
I  feel  certain  that,  being  what  he  is,  he  would  be  en- 
tirely wise  and  right. 

What  an  utter  futility  is  marriage  to  a  sea-going 
engineer!  Here  is  my  friend  McGorren,  a  hard- 
working and  Christian  man.  He  is  chief  of  a  boat  in 
the  Burmese  oil  trade.  His  wife  is  dead;  he  has 
three  children,  who  are  being  brought  up  with  their 
cousins  in  North  London.  McGorren  has  been  out 
East  two  years.  It  will  be  another  two  years  before 
he  can  come  home.  Where  is  the  morality  of  this  ? 
He  has  no  home.  His  little  ones  grow  up  strangers  to 
him;  they  are  mothered  by  a  stranger.  He  is  vote- 
less,  yet  subject  to  income  tax.  He  can  have  no 
friendships,  no  society,  no  rational  enjoyment  save 
reading.  Nothing!  And  what  is  his  return?  Four 
hundred  a  year  and  all  found.  I  look  into  the  frank 
eyes  of  George  the  Fourth  and  I  am  mute.  In  no 
philosophy,  in  no  "Conduct  of  Life,"  in  no  "Lesson 
for  the  Day"  which  I  have  read  can  I  discover  any 
consolation  or  sane  rule  of  living  for  such  as  he.  Is 
not  this  a  terrible  gap  in  Ruskin,  Emerson,  and  Co.  ? 
I  take  up  the  first  and  I  ask  George  to  listen.  He  is 
perfectly  willing,  because,  he  says  with  reverence, 
I  am  "a  scholar,"  and  I  have  read  to  him  before. 

.     There  must  be  work  done  by  the  arms, 
or  none  of  us  could  live.     There  must  be  work  done 


60  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

by  the  brains,  or  the  life  we  get  would  not  be  worth 
having.  And  the  same  men  cannot  do  both.  There 
is  rough  work  to  be  done,  and  rough  men  must  do  it; 
there  is  gentle  work  to  be  done,  and  gentlemen  must 
do  it;  and  it  is  physically  impossible  that  one  class 
should  do,  or  divide,  the  work  of  the  other.  And  it 
is  of  no  use  to  try  to  conceal  this  sorrowful  fact  by 
fine  words,  and  to  talk  to  the  workman  about  the 
honourableness  of  manual  labour  and  the  dignity 
of  humanity.  Rough  work,  honourable  or  not,  takes 
the  life  out  of  us;  and  the  man  who  has  been  heaving 
clay  out  of  a  ditch  all  day,  or  driving  an  express  train 
against  the  north  wind  all  night,  or  holding  a  collier's 
helm  in  a  gale  on  a  lee  shore,  or  whirling  white-hot 
metal  at  a  furnace  mouth,  is  not  the  same  man  at  the 
end  of  his  day,  or  night,  as  one  who  has  been  sitting 
in  a  quiet  room,  with  everything  comfortable  about 
him,  reading  books,  or  classing  butterflies,  or  painting 
pictures." 

George  nods.  He  understands  exactly  what  is 
meant.  His  father  is  skipper  of  a  collier,  his  brother 
is  in  a  steel  works.  Probably  he  and  I  know,  better 
than  John  Ruskin,  how  rough  work  "takes  the  life 
out  of  us."  But  when  I  continue,  and  read  to  him 
what  the  wise  man  teaches  concerning  justice  to  men, 
and  never-failing  knight-errantry  towards  women, 
and  love  for  natural  beauty,  even  awe-struck  George 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  61 

becomes  slightly  sardonic,  and  his  mouth  comes  down 
at  the  corners.  Let  me  formulate  his  thoughts.  He 
is  asking  how  can  one  be  just  when  the  work's  got 
to  be  done,  and  blame  must  fall  on  somebody's  shoul- 
ders? How  can  one  feel  and  act  rightly  towards 
women  when  one  is  young,  yet  compelled  to  live  a 
life  of  alternate  celibacy  and  licence?  How  can  one 
love  nature,  even  the  sea,  when  the  engine-room  tem- 
perature is  normally  90°  F.,  and  often  120°  F.,  when 
the  soul  cries  out  against  the  endless  rolling  miles? 
Wise  of  the  world,  give  answer!  We  two  poor  rough 
toilers  sit  at  your  feet  and  wait  upon  your  words. 

You  will  see,  now,  why  I  want  George  the  Fourth 
to  fall  in  love.  But  with  whom  is  he  to  fall  in  love  ? 
Who  courts  the  society  of  a  sailor  in  a  foreign  port? 
Seamen's  bethels?  Ah,  yes!  The  gentle  English 
ladies  in  foreign  ports  are  very  sympathetic,  very 
kind,  very  pleasant,  at  the  Wednesday  evening  con- 
cert in  the  rebuilt  Genoese  palace  or  the  deserted 
Neapolitan  hotel,  or  the  tin  tabernacle  amid  the  white 
sand  and  scrub;  but  they  take  good  care  to  keep  to- 
gether at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  and  the  audience 
is  railed  off  from  them  if  possible,  while  the  merry 
girls  outside,  who  live  shameful  lives,  and  whose  exist- 
ence is  ignored  by  the  missionary,  link  their  arms  in 
George's  and  take  him  to  their  cosy  little  boxes  high 
up  behind  those  beautiful  green  blinds. 


62  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

"It's  a  hell  of  a  life,  but  we've  just  got  to  mak'  the 
best  of  it,"  says  George,  and  he  lounges  off  to  join  the 
talk  in  the  Second's  room. 

I,  too,  sigh  when  he  is  gone.  The  best  of  it!  Are 
these  heroes  of  mine  right  after  all  ? 

"  Then  wherefore  sully  the  entrusted  gem 
Oj  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick  ? 
Why  -pierce  high-fronted  honour  to  the  quick 
For  nothing  but  a  dream  ?  " 

XIII 

IT  is  an  hour  since  George  the  Fourth  left  me,  and  I 
have  been  discussing  the  matter  with  the  Mate.  It 
is  a  habit  of  mine  to  discuss  matters  with  the  Mate. 
Here  is  a  man  with  no  theories  of  life,  no  culture,  as 
we  understand  the  term,  no  touch  of  modern  life  at 
all;  a  man  of  apostolic  simplicity,  having  gone  down 
to  the  sea  in  ships  since  1867.  You  can  depend  on 
the  practicability  of  his  conclusions,  because  he  has 
dealt  with  facts — since  1867.  "For,"  to  quote  Car- 
lyle,  "you  are  in  contact  with  verities,  to  an  unexam- 
pled degree,  when  you  get  upon  the  ocean,  with  in- 
tent to  sail  on  it  ...  bottomless  destruction 
raging  beneath  you  and  on  all  hands  of  you,  if  you 
neglect,  for  any  reason,  the  methods  of  keeping  it 
down  and  making  it  float  you  to  your  aim!" 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  63 

!  'Tis  a  hard  life,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  an'  we've  just 
got  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"But,  Mr.  Honna,  what  is  the  best  of  it?" 

"This!  Give  us  your  glass.  One  more,  an' 
Nicholas  is  makin'  a  Stonewall  Jackson  in  the  pan- 
thry.  He'll  be  in  in  a  minute." 

In  a  minute  Nicholas  arrives  with  a  jug.  Nicholas 
is  the  Steward,  at  sea  since  '69,  a  bronzed  Greek  from 
Salonika,  a  believer  in  dreams  and  sound  investments 
at  six  per  cent.  He  brings  in  a  Lloyd's  News,  arrived 
by  the  last  mail. 

"Ah!"  The  Mate  is  certainly  making  the  best  of 
it.  What  are  the  exact  components  of  the  drink  I 
cannot  determine,  but  the  resultant  is  without  blem- 
ish; eggs,  milk,  brandy,  rum — all  these  are  in  it,  and 
the  Mate's  tongue  loosens. 

"Have  you  seen  this  about  ze  Lorenzo,  mister?" 
asks  Nicholas. 

"What's  that?" 

Nicholas  (reading):  "'Ze  s.s.  Lorenzo,  bound 
from  New  Yawk  to  Cuba  with  coke,  met  with  heavy 
gales  off  Cape  Hatteras,  and  has  put  back  into  Nor- 
folk in  a  disabled  condition.  Two  blades  of  her 
propeller  are  broken,  and  she  is  leaking  badly  amid- 
ships. She  is  to  undergo  a  special  survey  before 
proceeding  further." 

The  Mate's  visage  is  wrinkled,  his  mouth  is  pursed 


64  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

up  as  he  sets  down  his  glass  and  adjusts  his  spectacles 
to  read,  and  he  nods  his  head. 

"See,  now,  'tis  two  years,  two  years  an'  a  half, 
since  I  left  her.  Nicholas,  you  were  there  then,  were 
ye  not?" 

"Ess,  mister.  She  was  on  the  Western  Ocean 
trade  then,  too." 

"Aye!  Lumber  out  o'  St.  John's  to  Liverpool." 
He  lays  down  the  paper.  "Mr.  McAlnwick,  now 
wait  while  I  tell  ye.  Ye  talk  of  honesty  at  sea  ?  I 
joined  that  ship  in  Glasgow,  an'  we  signed  on  for  the 
voy'ge,  winter  North  Atlantic.  General  cargo  for 
St.  John's,  Newf'unlan',  with  deals  to  bring  back  to 
Liverpool.  And,  though  you  may  consider  me  super- 
stitious, not  havin'  been  long  at  sea"  (Nicholas 
stands,  legs  apart,  glass  in  hand,  head  nodding 
sagely),  "not  havin'  been  long  at  sea,  I  say,  'twas  the 
Second  and  Fourth  engineers  who  brought  us  black 
luck!" 

"How,  Mr.  Honna?" 

"This  way.  Nicholas,  sit  ye  down  and  listen.  I 
was  Mate,  as  I  am  here.  I  went  up  from  London  and 
joined  her,  an'  the  Chief,  who's  here  now,  was  thick 
as  thieves  with  the  old  man,  an'  was  courtin'  the 
youngest  daughter,  tho'  he  never  married  her — he 
came  to  lay  down  the  law  to  me.  There  was  a  spare 
stateroom  for'ard  of  the  alley-way,  port  side.  The 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  65 

door  was  locked,  an'  I  wanted  it  open.  Ses  he,  '  'Tis 
locked.'  Ses  I,  'I  want  it  open.'  Ses  he,  'Who  are 
you?'  Ye  know  his  way,  Mr.  McAlnwick?  Ses  I, 
'I'm  the  Mate  o'  this  ship,  an',  by  Gawd,  if  that  door 
isn't  opened  smart,  ye're  a  better  man  than  I  am.' 
And  I  took  off  me  coat.  'Oh,'  ses  he,  '  'tis  all  right, 
mister,  I'll  have  it  opened.'  Ye  see,  there  was  women 
aboard,  an'  the  Second  and  Fourth  were  responsible." 

"They  were  inside!"  snickers  Nicholas,  looking  at 
his  cigar  reminiscently. 

"They  was,  Mr.  McAlnwick.  'Twas  scandalous 
— that  Chief,  too,  trapesin'  away  out  to  Scotstoun 
Hill  every  evenin'  to  play  cards  an'  shilly-shally, 
while  his  juniors  had  loose  females  aboard  the  ship. 
Well,  we  put  out,  made  St.  John's  in  sixteen  days, 
and  discharged  in  a  fortn't.  'Twas  there  the  Second 
an'  Fourth  began  again,  but  they  took  me  in.  I  came 
on  deck  one  Saturday  afternoon,  the  old  man  being 
ashore,  and  saw  two  females,  with  sealskin  muffs 
and  furred  spats,  lookin'  roun'  the  poop  an'  liftin' 
their  skirts  over  the  ropes,  for  all  the  world  like  real 
ladies.  An'  I  treated  them  as  such,  never  thinkin' 
what  they  were,  for  to  me  a  lady's  a  lady,  an'  I  know 
how  to  behave  to  them.  But  the  Second  Mate 
stopped  me  as  I  was  showin'  'em  over  all,  and  ses  he, 
'D'yer  know  what  she  is,  Mr.  Honna?'  pointin'  to 
the  one  with  a  heliatrope  blouse  under  her  jacket." 


66  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

There  is  another  snicker  from  Nicholas,  and  the 
Mate  goes  on: 

"I  would  not  believe  it,  Mr.  McAInwick.  I've  had 
my  weaknesses,  I  have  some  now,  or  I  would  not  be 
Mate  of  this  ship.  But  I've  never  insulted  my  em- 
ployers by  makin'  a — a  bloomin'  seraglio  o'  the  ship, 
nor  have  I  ever  seen  it  done  without  bringin'  black 
luck.  Now,  wait  till  I  tell  ye.  The  nex'  mornin', 
being  on  deck  at  seven  o'clock,  I  saw  the  Second  and 
Fourth  racin'  up  the  dock.  Their  collars  were  loose 
at  the  back,  an'  their  waistcoats  were  all  out  o'  gear, 
an'  they'd  made  hat-bands  o'  their  ties.  Mr.  McAIn- 
wick, ye  may  laugh,  but  they  were  a  disgrace  to  the 
ship! 

"Well,  we  put  out  o'  St.  John,  deck-loaded  with 
deals,  in  a  fog,  and  we  stayed  in  a  fog  for  three  days. 
We  were  all  among  the  ice,  too,  an'  that  afternoon  I 
came  on  deck  to  relieve  Mr.  Bruce,  the  Second  Mate. 
The  old  man  had  her  in  an  ice-lane,  goin'  full  speed. 
Ses  I,  'She's  goin'  fast,  sir.'  'Oh,'  ses  he,  'she  steers 
better  so.'  'Ay,'  ses  I,  'but  if  she  hits  anything,  she 
will — hit  it.'  A  minute  after,  he  come  up  out  o'  the 
fog,  an'  ses  he,  'Stop  her,  Mr.  Honna,  stop  her!' 
I'd  me  hand  on  the  telegraph  and  me  eye  on  the  foc'sle 
head  when  she  struck — bang!  An'  all  the  canvas 
caps  on  the  foe  'sle  ventilators  blew  up  an'  went  over- 
board. We'd  hit  a  cake.  The  Second  Mate  ran  out 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  67 

of  his  berth  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  went  for'ard,  an* 
I  followed  him.  There  she  was,  her  nose  crunched 
into  a  low-lyin'  cake  not  two  feet  above  the  water- 
line.  I  kept  all  my  spare  gear  in  the  fore-peak,  an' 
the  Second  Mate  went  down  to — to  reconnoitre. 
"Tis  all  right,  mister,'  ses  he.  *  'Tis  all  right  here.' 
Ses  I,  'I  don't  think,  Mr.  Bruce,  I  don't  think!'  An' 
when  I  went  down  an'  put  me  foot  on  those  piles  of 
rope  an'  bolts  of  canvas,  they  went  down,  all  soft, 
under  me.  Ye  understand?  Oh,  I  knew  there  was 
somethin',  rememberin'  those  flighty  women,  an'  the 
foc'sle  bonnets  blowin'  off.  The  water  had  rushed 
into  the  forepeak,  an'  had  driven  the  air  up,  ye  see. 
"Well,  we  put  her  full  astern  and  drew  away,  and 
then  we  put  back  into  St.  John,  slow,  dead  slow,  all 
the  way.  An'  there  the  Second  Engineer  saw  a  doc- 
tor, an'  the  one  in  the  heliatrope  blouse  saw  a  ghost!" 

"Ess,  'e  come  up  be'ind  'er,  an' " 

"Now,  hold  yer  horses,  Nicholas,  hold  yer  horses! 
Ye  see,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  when  a  woman  has  seen  a  man 
aboard  of  a  ship,  an'  she's  seen  that  ship  hull  down, 
or,  what's  the  same  thing,  swallowed  up  in  the  fog, 
she  writes  him  off,  so  to  speak.  'Poor  feller,'  ses  she, 
'he's  at  sea,'  just  as  we  say,  'Poor  feller,  he's  in  the 
churchyard.'  An'  so,  when  that  woman  felt  some- 
one touch  her  on  the  arm  in  Main  Street,  and  turned 
an'  found  it  was*  the  Second  Engineer,  she  gave  a 


68  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

shriek  like  a  lost  soul,  an'  fainted  on  the  sidewalk. 
So  it  happened.  Now  listen.  Help  yourself,  Nicho- 
las. 

"We  had  a  wooden  bow  put  on,  which  took  a  week, 
an'  we  started  again.  Two  days  out  it  fell  off,  and 
we  went  back  into  St.  John  for  the  third  time,  an* 
had  another  fitted.  I  took  the  opportunity  then  of 
havin'  a  word  with  the  Second,  while  we  were  makin' 
her  fast.  'Mr.  Carson,'  ses  I,  'air  ye  satisfied  ?'  He 
knew  what  I  meant,  for  he  came  from  Carrickfergus, 
an*  the  Lady's  Fever  had  him  hard.  'Aye,  mister/ 
ses  he.  ' 'Tis  all  right;  I'll  see  her  no  more,'  ses  he. 
An'  our  luck  turned.  We  had  another  bow  fitted, 
an'  we  came  across  the  Western  Ocean,  half-speed, 
an'  made  her  fast  in  the  Canada  Dock." 

"Is  that  all,  Mr.  Honna?" 

"No,  no,"  says  Nicholas,  with  another  reminiscent 

giggle.  "No,  mister,  the  Super,  'e  comes  down,  an' 
» »> 

"Hold  yer  horses,  now,  Nicholas;  hold  yer  horses, 
and  let  Jack  Honna  tell  this  yarn.  Mr.  McAlnwick, 
I  said  I'd  show  ye  honesty  as  practised  in  the  Mercan- 
tile Marine.  Now  listen.  The  Super — that's  Mr. 
Fallen,  as  ye  know — came  down  into  my  berth. 
'Mornin',  Honna' — ye  know  his  way;  but  he  seemed 
anxious  an'  fidgety.  Of  course,  I  knew  without  tellin' 
how  she  was  insured.  Ye  see,  mister,  the  Lorenzo 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  69 

an'  the  Julio  an'  the  Niccolo  an'  the  Benvenuto  here 
are  insured  against  total  loss,  an'  if  we  went  on  that 
reef  to-night,  Messrs.  Crubred,  Orr,  and  Glasswell 
'ud  drink  champagne  to  it  an'  book  our  half-pay  in 
tobacco  and  stamps.  But  then — ah,  Mr.  McAlnwick, 
then  it  was  different.  The  Lorenzo  was  insured 
against  accidents  to  the  tune  o'  three  thousand  pound 
sterling,  provided — provided,  ye  understand,  that 
repairs  came  up  to  that  figure.  An'  that  was  why 
Mr.  Fallon  looked  worried." 

"Why,  Mr.  Honna?"  The  Mate's  voice  drops  to 
a  whisper. 

"Why,  don't  ye  see,  mister?  But  ye've  not  been 
long  at  sea.  Because  he'd  totted  up  all  the  indents, 
an'  added  all  he  reasonably  could  on  the  bow  plates 
an'  stringers  plus  a  new  double  bottom  to  the  fore- 
hold,  an'  then  he  could  only  make  it  come  to  about 
twenty-four  hundred  pound.  'What's  to  be  done, 
Honna  ? '  ses  he,  rappin'  it  out.  '  What's  to  be  done  ? ' 
ses  I,  as  if  I  was  astonished.  'What  d'ye  mean,  Mr. 
Fallon?'  Ses  he,  ' 'Tis  a  dead  loss — a  dead  loss, 
Honna.'  Ses  I,  'I  don't  understand,  sir.'  And  I 
looked  him  in  the  eye.  'She's  not  hurt,'  ses  he, 
snappin'.  'She's  not  hurt  at  all.'  'Oh,'  ses  I,  'is 
that  all?  Why  not  hurt  her,  then — hurt  her?'  An' 
I  got  up  to  go  out.  'Oh,'  ses  he,  'we  can't  have  that 
— we  can't  have  that.  Where's  that  indent?'  And 


70  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

we  went  on  deck.  Well,  I  went  up  to  the  office  that 
afternoon  he  came  over,  an'  he  ses  in  a  hurry, 
'Honna,  yer  wife's  comin'  up  to-night,  ye  said?' 
(The  little  man  never  forgets  anythin',  as  perhaps 
ye've  noticed.)  'Yes,'  ses  I,  'she  is.'  'Then  go  an' 
meet  her,'  ses  he.  'Go  an'  meet  her.'  'What?'  ses 
I.  'Leave  the  ship,  with  her  goin'  into  dry-dock 
to-morrer  an'  no  cap 'en  aboard?'  'Damn  the  ship,' 
ses  he.  'Damn  the  ship!  /'//  look  after  the  ship- 
Go  an'  see  yer  wife.'  Mr.  McAlnwick,  when  I  got 
outside  I  laughed.  An'  when  I  got  to  Lime  Street, 
and  told  my  girl  about  Fallon  damnin'  the  ship,  she 
laughed  too.  It  must  have  been  eleven  o'clock  when 
I  left  the  hotel  an'  went  down  to  the  docks.  When  I 
got  there  she  was  in  dry-dock.  The  Super  had  issued 
orders  that  s.s.  Lorenzo  was  to  be  dry-docked  after 
darky  an'  I  saw  that  our  luck  was  in.  The  Second 
Engineer  was  standin'  by  the  ladder  as  I  climbed  over 
the  side,  an'  ses  he,  solemn-like,  'Mr.  Honna,  I've 
been  to  see  a  doctor  this  night,  an'  I'm  all  right  now. 
I'll  see  her  no  more.'  'Of  course  ye're  all  right!'  ses 
I,  chucklin',  'an'  so's  the  Lorenzo.  Come  down  an' 
have  somethin'.'  'What  are  they  doin'?'  ses  he.  'I 
was  below  this  five  minutes,  an'  I  thought  the  bottom 
was  comin'  in.'  'Repairs,'  ses  I,  wavin'  me  hand. 
'Repairs.  Comedown.'  An' we  went.  'Twas  half- 
past  one  when  we  got  down  on  the  dock  side  an* 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  71 

peeped   under.     An'  when  we'd   done   laughin'  we 
turned  in. 

"Well,  I  went  down  into  the  dock  nex'  mornin', 
an'  the  Surveyor  was  there  with  Mr.  Fallen.  He 
was  a  youngish  man,  an'  probably  he's  learnt  a  good 
deal  since  that  day,  but  he  was  just  the  feller  for  us. 
The  Super  introduced  us,  an'  ses  he,  'Mr.  Honna  will 
corroborate  what  I  say,  Mr.  Blythe.'  The  Surveyor 
turned  to  look  at  the  ship's  bottom,  and  it  was  lucky 
he  did,  for  me  jaw  was  hangin'.  Mr.  McAlnwick, 
they'd  had  the  hydraulic  jacks  under  her,  an'  they'd 
pushed  her  to  kingdom  come!  She  was  bent  to  the 
very  keelson.  Not  a  straight  plate  from  stem  to 
stern.  'It's  marvellous,  Mr.  Honna!'  ses  the  Sur- 
veyor. 'It's  marvellous!  How  in  the  worrld  did 
ye  come  home?'  'How?'  ses  I,  laughin'.  'On  our 
hands  and  knees,  to  be  sure,  mister.'  'Dear  me!'  he 
ses.  'Dear  me!'  'Aye,'  ses  I.  'An'  she  steered  to 
a  hair,  too!'  And  I  went  for'ard  to  look  at  her  bows. 
He  was  a  young  man,  an'  I  felt  sorry  for  him,  but  our 
luck  was  in.  Mr.  Fallen  came  down  into  my  room 
that  afternoon,  as  I  was  puttin'  on  me  shore  clothes, 
an'  ses  he,  'Honna,  did  ye  see  yer  wife?'  'I  did,  sir,' 
ses  I.  'Is  she  all  right?'  ses  he.  'No,'  ses  I;  'she's 
frettin'.'  'What's  the  matter  wi'  her?'  he  snaps, 
sittin'  down  where  you  are  now.  'What?'  ses  I,  an' 
I  stopped  as  I  was  fixin'  me  collar.  'She  thinks  I 


72  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

ought  to  have  a  new  hat,  Mister  Fallen.'  An'  I 
looked  him  in  the  eye.  'Oh ! '  ses  he  in  his  sharp  way. 
'Get  five  new  hats — get  five  new  hats.  Have  the 
ship  ready  to  be  moved  to-morrow  night.  She  will 
be  discharged,  and  redocked  for — extended  repairs. 
Good-day/  ses  he,  an'  he  went  out.  An'  when  I 
looked  where  he'd  been  sittin'  there  was  a  five-poun' 
note  in  an  envelope,  stickin'  in  the  cushion." 

"Did  you  see  your  wife  again,  Mr.  Honna?" 

"I  did,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  an'  she  pinched  me  black 
an'  blue !  An'  when  we  were  walkin'  through  the  city 
that  evenin'  I  saw  the  Second  Engineer  followin'  a 
sealskin  jacket  along  Paradise  Street,  and  I  felt  glad 
he  was  leavin'  to  go  up  for  his  ticket." 

"Is  that  all,  Mr.  Honna?"  The  Chief  Officer's 
face  is  screwed  up,  his  glasses  are  on  the  end  of  his 
nose  (how  like  my  old  Headmaster  he  looks  now!), 
and  he  scrutinizes  the  Steward's  newspaper  once 
more. 

"All,  Mr.  McAlnwick?  Apparently  not,  by  this. 
Mr.  Fallon'll  be  down  to  see  her,  for  he's  goin'  across 
to  see  the  Giacopo,  I  know,  an',  by  thunder,  he'll  fix 
her!  Never  seen  him  in  a  fix  yet.  Eh,  Nicholas?" 

"Ah,  he's  a  sharpun,  by  God!"  This  from  the 
fervent  Nicholas. 

"Ses  he,  first  thing  when  he  put  his  fut  on  the  deck 
when  we  brought  the  Ludovico  into  Shields  from 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  73 

Nikolaeff,  ses  he,  'Honna,  look  at  them  slack  funnel 
stays;  Honna,  look  at  that  spare  propeller  shaft, 
not  painted;  Honna,  don't  keep  pigs  on  the  saddle- 
back bunker-hatch — 'tis  insanitary.'  Honna  this, 
that,  and  the  other  all  in  one  breath.  And  we'd  had 
the  blessed  stern  torn  out  of  her,  runnin'  foul  o'  the 
breakwater,  to  say  nothin'  of  pickin'  up  the  telegraph 
cable  with  our  anchor  outside  Constant!" 

"Mr.  Honna,  tell  me " 

"To-morrow,  mister,  to-morrow.  'Tis  late,  and 
I  would  turn  in." 

And  so  we  end  our  day. 

XIV 
TO-DAY'S  shipping  news  has  it  thus: — 

Swansea. — Entered    inwards,    ss.    Benvenuto.     From 
S.  Africa.     P.  W.  D. 

Which  cryptic  item  covers  much  joy,  much  money, 
and  an  irrepressible  consumption  of  strong  drink. 
O  ye  rabid  total-abstinence  mongers !  If  I  could  only 
lure  you  away  on  a  six-thousand-mile  voyage,  make 
you  work  twelve  hours  a  day,  turn  you  out  on  the 
middle  watch,  feed  you  on  bully  beef  and  tinned 
milk!  Where  would  your  blue  ribbons  be  then? 
My  faith,  gentlemen,  when  once  you  had  been  paid 


74  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

off  at  the  bottom  of  Wind  Street,  I  warrant  me  we 
should  not  see  your  backs  for  dust  as  you  sprinted 
into  the  nearest  hostelry! 

And  the  joy,  moreover,  of  receiving  three  months' 
pay  in  one  lump  sum!  Ah!  one  is  rich  as  he  pushes 
past  the  green  baize  swing-door,  and  through  the 
crowd  of  seamen  and  sharks  who  cluster  like  flies 
round  that  same  green  door.  To  the  married  sailor, 
however,  that  joy  is  chastened  by  the  knowledge  that 
his  "judy"  has  been  drawing  half-pay  all  the  time, 
and  to  say  nothing  of  the  advance  note  of  two- 
pound-ten  which  he  drew  on  joining,  to  buy  clothes. 
But  Jack  Tar  or  Jack  Trimmer  knows  well  how  to 
drown  such  worries.  He  possesses  an  infinite  capac- 
ity for  taking  liquor,  which  inevitably  goes,  not  to 
his  head,  but  to  his  feet.  Six  of  the  Benvenuto's 
sailormen,  two  firemen,  and  the  carpenter  enter  our 
private  bar  as  we  sit  drinking.  An  indescribable 
uproar  invades  the  room  immediately.  They  are  in 
their  best  clothes — decent  boots,  ready-made  blue 
serge,  red  tie  with  green  spots  over  a  six-penny- 
halfpenny  "dickey,"  and  a  cap  that  would  make 
even  Newmarket  "stare  and  gasp."  Nothing  will 
pacify  them  short  of  drinks  at  their  expense.  A 
sailor  with  yellow  hair  and  moustache  curled  and 
oiled  insufferably,  insists  on  providing  me  with  a  pint 
of  rum.  The  carpenter,  a  radical  and  Fenian  when 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  75 

sober,  sports  a  bowler  with  a  decided  "list."  He 
embraces  my  yellow-haired  benefactor,  and  now,  to 
the  music  of  "Remember  Me  to  Mother  Dear,"  ren- 
dered by  the  electric  piano  behind  the  bar,  they  waltz 
slowly  and  solemnly  around.  The  landlady  implores 
them  to  stop,  and  the  carpenter  bursts  into  tears.  It 
really  is  very  much  like  the  "Hunting  of  the  Snark." 
They  are  so  unaffectedly  wealthy,  so  ridiculously 
happy,  so  unspeakably  vulgar!  They  batter  their 
silver  and  gold  upon  the  bar;  they  command  inoffen- 
sive strangers  to  drink  monstrous  potations;  they  ply 
their  feet  in  unconscious  single-steps;  they  forget  they 
have  not  touched  the  last  glass,  and  order  more; 
they  put  cataclysmal  questions  to  the  blushing  lassie 
who  serves  them;  they  embrace  one  another  repeat- 
edly with  maudlin  affection,  and  are  finally  ejected 
by  main  force  from  the  premises.  All  the  world— 
below  Wind  Street — knows  that  the  Benvenuto  has 
been  paid  off. 

And  we  ?  We  drink  soberly  to  England,  home,  and 
beauty,  bank  our  surpluses,  and  scuttle  back  to  the 
ship.  Past  interminable  rows  of  huge  hydraulic 
cranes,  over  lock-gates,  under  gigantic  coal-shoots 
which  hurl  twenty  tons  of  coal  at  once  into  the 
gaping  holds  of  filthy  colliers,  we  stumble  and  hurry 
along  to  where  our  own  steamer  is  berthed.  That  is 
one  of  the  hardships  of  our  exalted  position  as  officers. 


76  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

We  begin  again  as  soon  as  we  have  been  paid  off; 
they  depart,  inebriated  and  uxorious  to  their  homes. 
They  enjoy  what  the  political  economists  call  "the 
rewards  of  abstinence  ";  we  put  on  our  boiler  suits  and 
crawl  about  in  noisome  bilges,  soot-choked  smoke- 
boxes,  and  salt-scarred  evaporators. 

Nevertheless,  when  five  o'clock  strikes  and  work 
is  done  for  the  day,  we  put  on  our  "shore  clothes" 
(the  inevitable  blue  serge  of  the  seamen),  light  our 
pipes,  and  go  into  the  town  again.  Ah !  How  good 
it  is  to  see  people,  people,  people!  To  see  cars, 
and  shops,  and  girls  again!  How  wondrously,  how 
ineffably  beautiful  a  barmaid  appears  to  us,  who  have 
seen  no  white  woman  for  nearly  four  months !  And 
book-shops!  Dear  God!  I  was  in  the  High  Street 
for  half  an  hour  to-night,  and  I  have  already  bagged 
a  genuine  "Galignani"  Byron,  calf  binding,  yellow 
paper,  and  suppressed  poems,  all  complete,  for  three 
shillings.  It  will  go  well  in  our  bookcase  beside  our 
Guiccioli  Recollections.  For  myself  I  have  a  dear 
little  "Grammont"  with  notes,  a  fine  edition  of 
Bandello's  "Novelle,"  and  a  weird  paper-covered 
copy  of  "Joseph  Andrews,"  designed,  presumably, 
to  corrupt  the  youthful  errantry  of  Swansea,  and 
secreted  by  the  vendor  of  Welsh  devotional  literature 
at  the  very  bottom  of  the  tuppenny  box.  In  spite  of 
Borrow's  enthusiasm  for  Ab  Gwilym,  I  have  no  crav- 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  77 

ing  for  Welsh  Theology,  mostly  by  Jones  and 
Williams,  which  is  to  be  had  by  the  cubic  ton.  No 
one  buys  it,  I  fear.  The  little  lass  who  sold  me  the 
Fielding  and  the  "Novelle"  looked  pale  and  hungry 
behind  the  stacks  of  books,  and  I  am  shamed,  speak- 
ing merely  as  a  thorough-paced  buyer  of  second-hand 
books,  that  I  paid  more  for  the  latter  than  she  would 
have  asked.  But  the  blue-grey  eyes,  the  nervous 
poise  of  the  head,  the  pride  in  the  sensitive  nostrils, 
reminded  me  of  someone.  ...  A  horrible  life 
for  a  young  girl,  my  friend,  a  horrible  life. 

I  took  my  treasures  along  the  brilliantly  lighted 
streets.  I  walked  on  air,  happy  with  a  mysterious 
happiness.  I  looked  at  myself  as  I  passed  a  shop 
mirror,  and  saw  a  face  with  a  cold,  cynical  expression, 
the  soul  intrenched  behind  inscrutable,  searching  eyes. 
"You  do  not  look  happy,"  I  said  to  myself  as  I  passed 
on,  and  I  smiled.  I  thought  again  of  those  gaudily 
dressed  sailors;  I  thought  of  their  inane  felicity,  and 
smiled  again.  "  De  chacun  selon  que  son  habillete,  a 
chacun  selon  que  ses  besoins,"  I  muttered  as  I  turned 
into  an  iridescent  music-hall. 

And  now  I  reached  the  summit  of  experience.  All 
the  morning  I  was  toiling  in  the  engine-room  as  we 
ploughed  across  the  Channel,  past  Lundy,  and  up 
to  the  Mumbles  Head.  I  had  played  my  part  in  that 
strange  comedy  of  "paying  off."  I  had  toiled  again 


78  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

in  the  afternoon  in  a  dry-docked  steamer,  making  all 
safe  after  shutting  down.  I  had  scoured  the  shelves 
of  a  tiny  shop  for  books.  And  now  I  sat  in  the  fau- 
teuils  ot  a  modern  music-hall,  beholding  the  amazing 
drama  of  "The  Road  to  Ruin." 

Verily,  as  Saint-Beuve  says,  "  Au  theatre  on  exagere 
toujours."  Not  that  I  would  accuse  the  constructors 
of  the  piece  of  any  lack  of  skill.  Indeed,  Scribe  him- 
self never  displayed  more  consummate  stage-craft  or 
a  greater  sense  of  "situation,"  than  they.  As  one 
gazes  upon  the  spectacle  of  the  impossible  under- 
graduate's downfall,  he  loses  all  confidence  in  the  im- 
possibility; he  believes  that  here  indeed  lies  the  road 
to  ruin;  he  feels  inexpressibly  relieved  when  the  young 
man  thanks  Heaven  for  his  terrible  dream  of  the 
future,  and  sits  down  to  Conic  Sections,  his  head  be- 
tween his  hands.  You  notice  this  latter  touch.  The 
playwright  knows  his  audience.  He  knows  they 
think  that  an  influx  of  Conic  Sections  strains  the 
cerebral  centres,  and  that  study  is  always  carried  on 
with  the  head  compressed  between  the  hands.  Thus 
the  sermon  reaches  the  hearts  of  those  who  still  have 
occasional  nightmares  of  the  time  when  they  conned 
"  Parallel  lines  are  those  which,  if  produced  ever  so 
far  both  ways,  will  not  meet/'  Alas !  I  fear  our  con- 
ceptions of  art  are  in  the  same  predicament. 

Is  it  not  strange,  though,  how  customs  vary?     In 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  79 

the  Middle  Ages  one  went  to  church  to  see  the  mys- 
tery play;  now  one  goes  to  the  music-hall  to  hear  a 
sermon.  "Pronounced  by  clergymen  and  others  to 
be  the  most  powerful  sermon  ever  preached  from 
the  stage,"  etc.  I  wonder,  as  I  scan  my  programme, 
whether  the  monastic  playwrights  of  old  ever  pub- 
lished encomiums  on  their  weird  productions  by 
prominent  highwaymen.  I  say  highwaymen  be- 
cause I  can  think  of  none  who  had  a  better  right  to 
criticise  dramatic  performances  from  the  practical 
and  moral  standpoints.  But  the  noise  of  the  under- 
graduate as  he  goes  crashing  through  his  ruinous 
nightmare  recalls  me.  I  proceed  to  examine  my 
companions  in  distress.  All  are  engaged  in  the  Road 
to  Ruin.  I  think  they  like  stage  ruin — it  is  so  thrill- 
ing. Moreover,  it  leaves  out  all  that  is  at  all  middle- 
class.  Even  our  wicked  undergraduate  never  falls 
as  low  as  the  middle  class.  He  starts  as  a  university 
man,  and  ends  in  a  slum,  but  he  is  saved  from  the 
second-class  season  ticket.  I  am  still  puzzling  with 
this  question  of  the  middle  class  as  I  quit  the  theatre 
and  make  my  way  down  to  the  docks.  There  is  a 
mild,  misty  rain  falling,  and  I  turn  into  my  favourite 
tavern  in  Wind  Street  for  a  glass  of  ale.  The  Middle 
Class!  Why,  I  ask  myself,  are  they  so  strange  in 
their  intellectual  tastes?  The  wealthy  I  understand; 
the  workmen  I  understand;  but  O  this  terrible 


8o  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Middle  Class!  I  sit  musing,  and  four  men  come  in 
upon  my  solitude.  Obviously  they  are  actors,  rush- 
ing in  for  a  "smile"  between  the  acts.  Obviously,  I 
say,  for  their  easy  manners,  savoir  faire,  and  good 
breeding  stamp  them  men  of  the  world,  and  their 
evening  dress  does  the  rest. 

"Ah,  you  read  the  Clarion?"  observes  one.  I 
start  guiltily.  Yes,  I  had  bought  a  copy,  and  I 
have  unconsciously  spread  it  on  the  table  by  my 
side.  "Will  you  drink  with  us,  sir?"  adds  another. 
He  is  not  of  the  Middle  Class. 

"Thank  you,  I  will,"  I  answer,  and  my  first  inter- 
locutor glances  over  the  paper. 

"Are  you  a  Socialist?"  he  inquires.  "Yes,"  I 
reply.  "So  am  I."  I  rise,  and  we  shake  hands. 
This,  my  friend,  was  beyond  all  my  imagining.  It 
is,  moreover,  not  middle  class.  I  have  ridden  in  a 
suburban  train  day  after  day  for  years,  with  people 
who  lived  in  the  same  street,  without  exchanging 
a  word.  Here,  in  this  tavern,  convention  dares  not 
to  show  her  head.  And  I  am  warmed  as  with  the 
cheerful  sun. 

"Have  you  been  in?"  asks  the  man  who  hands  me 
my  beer,  and  he  flings  his  head  back  to  indicate 
the  theatre. 

"Not  yet,"  I  answer.  "What  have  you  on  this 
week?" 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  81 

''A  Sister's  Sin.    You  should  see  it.     Come  to- 


morrow. 


"A  Sister's  Sin!" 

I  shall  not  go  to  see  it.  I  dare  not.  I  had  in- 
tended to  ask  my  Socialist  whether  he  could  solve 
the  problem  of  the  Middle  Class  for  me,  but  he  has 
done  it.  " Au  theatre  on  exagere  toujours"  I 
hardly  know  which  are  the  more  baffling — the 
Middle  Ages  or  the  Middle  Classes. 


XV 

I  HAVE  just  been  looking  through  an  old,  old  note- 
book of  mine,  the  sort  of  book  compiled,  I  suppose, 
by  every  man  who  really  sets  out  on  the  long  road.  I 
remember  buying  the  thing,  a  stout  volume  with 
commercially  marbled  covers,  at  a  stationer's  shop 
in  the  Goswell  Road.  I  wonder  if  the  salesman 
dreamed  that  it  would  be  used  by  the  grimy  appren- 
tice to  transcribe  extracts  from  such  writers  as  Kant 
and  Lotze,  Swinburne  and  Taine,  Emerson  and 
Schopenhauer?  How  strong,  how  dear  to  me,  was 
all  that  pertained  to  Metaphysic  in  that  long  ago! 
Often,  too,  I  see  original  speculations,  naive  dog- 


82  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

matism,  sandwiched  between  the  contextual  ex- 
cerpts. 

Worthless,  of  course — it  should  be  hardly  neces- 
sary to  say  so.  And  yet,  as  I  turn  the  leaves,  I  get 
occasional  glimpses  of  real  thought  shining  through 
the  overstrained  self-consciousness,  illuminating  my 
youthful  priggishness  of  demeanour.  For  instance, 
how  could  I  have  been  so  prescient  to  have  coupled 
Emerson  and  Schopenhauer  together  so  persistently? 
Here,  smudged  and  corrected  to  distraction,  is  a 
passionate  defence  of  the  former,  occasioned  by  some 
academical  trifler  dubbing  him  a  mere  echo  of  Carlyle 
and  Coleridge.  I  almost  lived  on  Emerson  in  those 
days,  to  such  good  purpose,  indeed,  that  I  know  him 
by  heart.  And,  if  I  mistake  not,  he  will  come  to  his 
own  again  in  the  near  future,  when  there  will  be  no 
talk  of  Carlylean  echoes. 

All  alone,  sharing  its  page  with  no  other  thought, 
is  this,  to  me,  characteristic  phrase:  "Mental  Par- 
abolism,  N.  B"  It  was  like  a  shock  to  see  it  once 
more  after  all  these  years,  and  I  have  been  trying  to 
understand  it.  It  was  born,  I  think,  of  my  frenzy 
for  analogizing.  I  wanted  some  analogy,  in  physical 
phenomena,  for  everything  in  my  mental  experience. 
Professor  Drummond  was  to  be  left  infinitely  in  the 
rear.  And  by  parabolism,  it  seems  according  to  a 
later  note,  I  meant  that  a  man's  intellectual  career 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  83 

is  a  curve,  and  that  curve  is  a  parabola,  being  the 
resultant  of  his  mental  mass  into  his  intellectual 
force.  The  importance  of  this  notion  impresses  me 
more  now  than  then.  It  will  explain  how  men  of 
indubitable  genius  stop  at  certain  points  along  the 
road.  They  can  get  no  further,  because  their  mental 
parabola  is  complete.  All  that  has  happened  since 
is  to  them  unreal  and  unimportant.  One  man  I 
know  exemplifies  this  to  a  remarkable  degree.  His 
parabola  starts  at  the  seventeenth  century,  rises  to 
its  maximum  somewhere  about  the  Johnsonian 
period,  continues  with  scarcely  abated  vigour  as 
far  as  Thackeray  and  Carlyle,  declines  towards 
Trollope  and — ends.  To  speak  of  Meredith  and 
Tolstoi,  Ibsen  and  Maeterlinck,  is  to  beat  the  air. 
The  energy  is  exhausted,  the  mind  has  completed 
its  curve;  the  rest  is  a  quiet  reminiscence  of  what  has 
been. 

It  pleases  me  to  think  that  there  may  be  some  grain 
of  truth  in  all  this,  though  I  am  not  unmindful  of  the 
inevitable  conclusion,  that  my  own  parabola  will 
some  day  take  its  downward  course,  and  I  shall  sit, 
quiescent,  while  the  younger  men  around  will  de- 
mand stormily  why  I  cannot  see  the  grandeur,  the 
profundity,  of  their  newer  gods.  There  lies  the 
tragedy.  Those  gods,  quite  possibly,  will  be  greater 
than  mine — must  be,  if  my  belief  in  man  be  worth 


84  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

anything.  Yes,  that  is  the  tragedy.  I  shall  be  at 
rest,  and  the  youths  of  the  golden  future  will  be  see- 
ing visions  and  dreaming  dreams  of  which  I  have  not 
even  the  faintest  hint. 

I  feel  this  most  keenly,  when  reading  Nietzsche, 
that  volcanic  stammerer  of  the  thing  to  come.  I 
feel,  "inside,"  as  children  say,  that  my  parabola  will 
be  finished  before  I  can  win  to  the  burning  heart  of 
the  man.  It  frightens  me  (a  sign  of  coming  fatigue) 
to  launch  out  on  one  of  his  torrents  of  thought — 
veritable  rushing  rivers  of  vitriol,  burning  up  all  that 
is  decaying  and  fleshly,  casting  away  the  refined, 
exhausted,  yet  exultant  spirit  on  some  lonely  point 
of  the  future,  where  he  can  see  the  illimitable  ocean 
of  race-possibilities. 

t(0h,  noon  of  life  !    Delightful  garden  land  !    Fair  summer 
Station!  " 

So,  writing  (steadying  myself  against  the  Atlantic 
roll)  one  fresh  thought  in  the  blank  left  for  it  in  the 
long  ago,  I  close  the  book,  and  take  up  my  present 
life  once  more. 

"The  secret  of  a  joyful  life  is  to  live  dangerously." 
Perhaps  one  may  judge  of  a  man's  power  by  his  re- 
ception of  that  aphorism.  For  me,  at  any  rate, 
there  is  but  unconditional  assent.  To  live  danger- 
ously! How  nauseous  to  me  is  the  maternal  anxiety 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  85 

of  some  of  my  friends.  They  are  so  anxious  for  me. 
It  is  such  a  dangerous  trade.  And  so  on. 

I  have  been  scanning  a  newspaper  left  in  the  mess- 
room,  and  it  has  provoked  me  to  further  thought.  I 
see,  in  retrospect,  those  myriads  of  nicely  dressed, 
God-fearing  suburbans  in  their  upholstered  local 
trains,  each  with  his  face  turned  towards  his  daily 
sheet,  each  with  his  scaly  hide  of  prejudice  clamped 
about  his  soul,  each  placidly  settling  the  world's 
politics  and  religion  to  his  own  satisfaction,  each 
taking  his  daily  dram  of  news  from  the  same  still. 
I  look  into  my  own  copy  and  read  on  one  page  of 
a  society  bazaar  where  Lady  So-and-So  and  the 
Hon.  Alicia  So-and-So  "presided  over  a  very  taste- 
ful stall  of  dwarf  myrtle-trees,"  etc. 

In  another  column  I  am  informed  that  some  person 
or  other,  of  whom  I  have  never  heard,  has  gone  to 
Wiesbaden.  The  leading  article  is  devoted  to  a 
eulogium  of  some  football  team,  the  special  article 
asks,  "Can  we  live  on  twopence  a  day?'*  You 
cannot  imagine  how  unutterably  turbid  all  this  ap- 
pears to  me,  out  on  the  green  Atlantic.  It  is  Sunday, 
and  so  we  rest;  but  yesterday  afternoon  I  was  out  in 
one  of  the  lifeboats,  line-fishing  for  cod.  The  great 
green  rollers  came  up  from  the  south,  and  the  boat 
rode  the  billows  like  a  cockle-shell.  How  I  would 
like  to  have  had  some  of  those  city  folk  with  me  in 


86  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

that  up-ended  lifeboat,  their  hands  red  with  the  cold 
sea  water  and  scarred  with  the  line  as  it  ran  through 
their  fingers  to  the  pull  of  a  fourteen-pounder. 
Dwarf  myrtle-trees !  Wiesbaden!  God!  Let  them 
come  below  with  me,  let  me  take  them  into  our 
boilers  and  crush  them  down  among  those  furred 
and  salt-scarred  tubes,  and  make  them  work.  They 
used  to  tell  me,  when  I  said  I  loathed  football,  that 
I  did  not  know  I  was  alive.  Do  they,  I  wonder? 

Yes,  the  newspaper  came  to  me  like  a  breath  of 
foul  city  air.  Very  much  in  the  same  way  I  was 
affected  by  a  remark  made  to  me  by  my  friend  the 
Mate.  "Where  I  live,"  said  he,  "one  child  won't 
play  with  another  if  its  father  gets  five  shillings  a 
week  more'n  t'other's  father"  We  were  talking 
Socialism,  if  I  remember  rightly,  and  that  was  his 
argument  against  its  feasibility.  I  did  not  notice 
the  argument;  I  fell  to  thinking  how  odd  it  must  be 
to  live  in  such  an  atmosphere.  How  is  it  we  never 
have  it  in  Chelsea?  I  have  never  been  the  less  wel- 
come because  my  host  or  hostess  has  as  many  pounds 
a  week  as  I  have  a  year.  My  old  friend  of  my 
'prentice  days — dear  old  Tom,  the  foreman,  and  Jack 
Williams,  the  slinger,  they  get  no  colder  welcome 
from  us  because  they  live  in  Hammersmith  or  White- 
chapel.  Have  we  ourselves  not  seen  in  our  rooms 
rich  and  poor,  artist  and  mechanic,  writer  and 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  87 

labourer?  Nay,  have  we  not  had  German  clerk 
and  Chinese  aristocrat,  German  baron  and  Russian 
nihilist?  What  is  it  that  permits  us  to  dispense 
with  that  snobbery  which  seems  almost  a  necessary 
of  life  to  the  people  where  the  old  Mate  lives!  I 
think  it  is  lack  of  imagination  in  our  women-folk, 
and  the  fetish  of  the  home.  For  surely  the  utter 
antithesis  of  "home**  is  that  same  "dangerous  life." 
These  young  men  who  economise  and  grow  stingy 
in  their  desperate  endeavour  to  establish  a  "home 
nest,"  some  "Acacia  Villa"  in  Wood  Green  or  Croy- 
don — what  can  they  know  of  living  dangerously? 
Their  whole  existence  is  a  fleeing  from  danger. 
Safe  callings,  safe  investments,  safe  drainage,  safe 
transit,  safe  morality,  safe  in  the  arms  of  Jesus.  Is 
it  lack  of  imagination? 

XVI 

So  WE,  who  foregathered  yesterday  afternoon  in 
the  shipping  office,  are  lashed  together  for  another 
four  months.  A  motley  group,  my  friend.  Outside 
I  stood,  notebook  in  hand,  trying  to  find  a  spare 
fireman  who  wanted  a  job.  A  mob  of  touts,  sharks, 
and  pimps  crowded  round  me,  hustling  each  other, 
and  then  turning  away  from  my  call,  "Any  firemen 
here?"  In  despair  I  go  over  to  the  "Federation 


88  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Office,"  where  all  seamen  are  registered  in  the  books 
of  life  insurance,  where  they  pay  their  premiums, 
and  await  possible  engineers.  I  consult  with  the 
grave,  elderly  man  in  the  office,  and  he  asks  for 
firemen  in  the  bare,  cold  waiting-room.  One  man 
comes  up,  a  pale,  nervous  chap,  clean-shaven  and 
quiet.  I  take  his  "Continuous  Discharge"  book, 
flick  it  open  at  the  last  entry — trawling!  The  last 
foreign-going  voyage  is  dated  1902,  "S.  Africa." 
"Voyage  not  completed."  I  hand  it  back.  "Won't 
do,"  I  remark  shortly,  and  look  round  for  others. 
The  man  looks  at  the  grave,  elderly  person,  who  takes 
the  book.  "Give  him  a  chance,"  says  the  latter,  in 
his  low,  official  voice.  "Look — S.Africa.  The  man's 
been  serving  his  country.  Give  him  a  chance."  "I 
would  if  he'd  promise  not  to  get  enteric  when  we 
reach  port,"  I  say.  "Never  'ad  it  yet,  sir,"  says  the 
man,  and  I  take  his  book.  "  Benvenuto.  Hurry  up. 
She's  signing  on  now."  He  runs  across  the  road,  and 
I  follow. 

When  I  reach  the  shipping  office  they  are  waiting 
for  me.  Behind  the  counter  and  seated  beside  the 
clerk  is  the  Captain,  writing  our  "advance  notes." 
The  clerk  asks  if  all  are  present;  we  shuffle  up  closer, 
and  he  begins  to  read  the  articles  to  which  we  sub- 
scribe— signing  our  death-warrants,  we  call  it.  No 
one  listens  to  him — he  himself  is  paring  his  nails,  or 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  89 

arranging  some  other  papers  as  he  intones  the  sen- 
tences which  are  more  familiar  to  him  and  to  us  than 
the  Lord's  Prayer  to  a  clergyman.  Then,  when  he 
has  finished,  each  one  comes  up  for  catechism — 
carpenter,  sailors,  donkeyman,  fireman,  all  in  due 
order.  Then  the  officers.  "Donkeyman!"  calls 
the  clerk.  A  huge,  muscular  figure  with  a  red 
handkerchief  round  his  bull  throat  ceases  arguing 
with  a  fireman,  plunges  forward,  and  seizes  the 
pen.  He  is  my  friend  of  the  last  voyage,  the 
mighty  Norseman. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Johann  Nicanor  Gustaffsen." 

"Where  were  you  born?" 

"Stockholm." 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Thirty-two." 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"Ryder  Street,  Swansea." 

"Any  advance?" 

"Yes." 

And  so  on  with  each  of  us. 

"Don't  forget,"  says  the  clerk  from  the  depths 
of  a  three-and-a-half-inch  collar,  "to  be  on  the 
ship  at  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning."  And  we 
troop  out  to  make  room  for  another  crew,  meet 
yet  another  coming  to  be  paid  off  at  the  other 


90  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

counter,  wish  we  were  they,  and  eventually  reach 
the  ship. 

Strange  scenes  sometimes,  in  that  shipping  office, 
or,  for  that  matter,  in  any  shipping  office.  I  shall 
not  forget  that  forlorn  little  lad  we  had  once  engaged 
for  mess-room  steward  at  two  pounds  five  a  month, 
with  his  red  little  nose  and  the  bullied  look  in  his 
eyes.  It  was  when  he  went  up  to  sign,  and  answer 
the  questions  given  above.  What  was  his  name? 
"Christmas  Hedge."  All  turned  and  stared  at  the 
snivelling  urchin.  Where  was  he  born?  "In  a 
field." 

The  walls,  too,  interest  a  man  like  me.  There 
are  notices  in  all  the  tongues  of  Europe  on  the  walls — 
notices  of  sunken  wrecks,  of  masters  fined  for  sub- 
merging their  loaded  discs,  of  white  lights  in  the 
China  seas  altered  to  green  ones  by  the  Celestial 
Government,  of  transport-medals  awaiting  their 
owners,  of  how  to  send  money  home  from  Salonika 
or  Copenhagen  or  Yokohama  or  Singapore.  Near 
the  door,  moreover,  is  a  plain  wooden  money-box 
with  no  appeal  for  alms  thereon — merely  a  printed 
slip  pasted  along  the  base  of  it:  "There  is  sorrow  on 
the  sea."  And  often  and  often  I  have  seen  grey 
chief  officers  and  beardless  "fourths"  drop  their 
sixpences  into  the  box,  for  the  sake  of  that  sorrow 
on  the  sea. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  91 

And  now  it  is  night — our  last  night  ashore.  The 
Second  Engineer  asks  me  to  go  up  town  with 
him.  The  Chief  has  gone  to  see  his  wife  home 
to  Cardiff,  and  George  goes  on  watch  at  eight- 
bells.  So  for  the  last  time  I  don  a  linen  collar 
and  shore  clothes,  and  we  go  up  town.  We  meet 
sundry  youth  from  the  ship-yard;  they  are  going 
to  that  iridescent  music-hall  into  which  I  plunged 
six  weeks  ago  when  we  came  in.  We  pay  our  six- 
pences for  two  hours'  high-speed  enjoyment,  "early 
performance";  enjoyment  being  sold  nowadays  very 
much  like  electricity — at  a  high  voltage  but  small 
cost  per  unit.  Scarcely  my  sort,  I  fear,  but  what 
would  you?  I  cannot  be  hypercritical  on  this  our 
last  night  ashore.  And  so  I  strive  to  feel  as  if  I 
were  sorry  to  go  away,  as  if  parting  were  indeed  that 
sweet  sorrow  I  have  heard  it  called,  as  if  I  really 
cared  a  scrap  for  the  things  they  care  for.  True, 
I  feel  the  parting  from  my  friend,  and  it  is  no  sweet 
sorrow  either.  But  that  is  at  Paddington,  when  the 
train  moves,  and  our  hands  are  gripped  tightly — 
a  faint  foretaste  of  that  last  terror,  when  he  or  I  shall 
pass  away  into  the  shadows  and  the  other  will  be 
left  alone  for  ever.  It  is  when  I  ponder  upon  that 
scene  that  I  realize  what  our  friendship  has  become, 
that  I  realize  how  paltry  every  other  familiar  or 
even  relative  appears  by  comparison.  Let  me 


92  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

treasure  this  friendship  carefully,  healthfully,  old 
friend,  for,  by  my  love  of  life,  it  is  rare  enough  in 
these  our  modern  times. 

I  have  been  wondering  why  this  is — I  think  it  is 
money,  or  rather  business.  Have  you  noticed  how 
business  dehumanises  men  ?  I  count  over  in  my  mind 
dozens  of  men  whom  I  know,  men  of  age,  experience, 
and  wealth,  who  almost  demand  that  I  should  envy 
them  by  the  very  way  they  walk  the  city  streets. 
They  are  prosperous,  they  imagine.  I,  strolling 
idly  through  those  same  city  streets,  looking  at  the 
show,  studying  their  faces,  defied  them,  and  said 
to  myself,  "You  gentlemen  are  not  human  beings — 
you  are  business  men."  Not  that  I  would  tell  them 
this;  they  would  not  understand,  though  they  are 
guilty  of  occasional  lucid  intervals.  They  will  ad- 
mit, in  a  superior  tone,  that  business  cuts  them  off 
from  a  great  deal.  But  it  is  evident  they  intend  stick- 
ing to  the  irrefutable  logic  of  the  bank-balance.  For 
them  there  is  no  friendship  like  ours.  They  could 
not  afford  it,  bless  you.  How  are  they  to  know  that 
you  won't  "do"  them  or  borrow  of  them?  No,  no. 
The  world,  for  them,  is  a  place  where  they  have  a 
chance  of  besting  you  and  me,  of  getting  more  money 
than  you  or  I,  of  "prospering,"  as  they  call  it,  at 
another's  expense. 

If  I  say  to  one  of  these  men,  "I  want  no  fortune; 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  93 

I  have  what  I  need  now  by  working  for  it,"  he  looks 
at  me  as  though  I  were  stark  mad.  If  I  say,  to  poor 
Sandy  Jackson,  for  instance,  who  has  only  one  lung 
and  is  mad  on  "getting  more  business" — if  I  say 
to  him,  "You  advise  me  to  go  in  for  business  on  my 
own  account,  Sandy.  Very  good.  What  does  that 
mean?  It  means  that  I  must  become  dehumanised, 
or  fail.  I  must  have  no  friends  who  are  of  no  use  to 
me.  I  must  waste  no  time  reading  or  writing  or 
dreaming  dreams.  I  must  eat  no  dinners  abroad 
which  are  not  likely  to  bring  in  business.  I  must 
toil  early  and  late,  go  on  spare  regimen,  drink  little, 
dress  uncomfortably,  live  respectably — for  what, 
Sandy  ?  For  a  few  hundreds  or  thousands  of  pounds. 
May  I  let  up  then?  Oh,  no,  Sandy,  that  is  the 
business  man's  mirage,  that  letting  up.  He  never 
lets  up  until  he  is  let  down — into  the  tomb.  It 
would  be  against  his  principles.  Well,  Sandy,  I 
see  you're  at  it  and  apparently  killing  yourself  by 
it,  but  I  wish  to  be  excused.  It  isn't  good  enough. 
I  want  my  friends,  my  books,  my  dreams  most 
of  all.  Take  your  business;  I'll  to  my  dreams 
again. 

So,  while  we  sit  in  the  gaudy  playhouse,  I  dream 
my  dreams  of  the  great  books  I  want  to  write,  the 
orations  I  want  to  deliver,  the  lessons  I  want  to  teach, 
and  I  wonder  how  long  my  time  of  probation  will  be. 


94  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Strange  that  I  should  never  make  any  allowance  for 
the  dangerous  nature  of  my  calling.  This  may  be 
my  last  night  ashore  for  ever.  What  of  it?  Well, 
it  will  be  a  nuisance  to  leave  those  books,  lectures, 
and  lessons  to  be  written,  given,  and  taught  by 
somebody  else;  but  I  don't  really  mind.  I  only 
want  to  go  along  steadily  to  the  end,  and  when  that 
comes  shake  my  friend  by  the  hand  and  say  "Fare- 
well." It  is  plain,  is  it  not,  that  I  am  no  business 
man? 

I  am  still  dreaming  when  our  noisy  little  crowd 
elbow  their  way  out  and  pass  up  the  street  into  a 
tavern.  Here  my  friend  the  Second  is  known.  He 
pats  the  fair  barmaid  on  the  cheeks,  chucks  the  dark 
one  under  the  chin,  calls  the  landlady  "old  dear," 
and  orders  drinks  in  extenso.  I  am  introduced  to 
one  and  all,  and  another  girl,  neither  dark  nor  fair, 
emerges  from  an  inner  room  for  my  especial  regard. 
We  are  invited  within,  and  with  glass  in  hand  and 
girl  on  knee,  we  toast  our  coming  voyage.  One  by 
one  the  girls  are  kissed;  the  landlady  jocularly  asks 
why  she  is  left  out,  and  a  sense  of  justice  makes  me 
salute  her  chastely.  You  see,  old  man,  this  is  the 
last  night  ashore.  We  bid  them  "good-bye,"  they 
wish  us  good  luck,  and  we  depart  to  our  own  place 
once  more.  The  Second  is  silent.  He  has  said 
good-bye  to  his  girl — he  hung  back  a  moment  as  we 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  95 

left  the  tavern.  And  there  is  something  burning  in 
my  brain,  just  behind  the  eyeballs.  I  have  not  said 
good-bye  to  my  girl.  Or  rather  I  mean — but  I 
cannot  formulate  to  myself  just  what  I  do  mean 
at  the  time.  I  only  feel,  as  I  turn  in,  that  I  ought  to 
have  told  my  friend  all  that  happened  when  I  met 
her,  a  month  ago,  and  that,  after  all,  nothing  really 
matters,  and  the  sooner  I  get  away  to  sea  again  the 
better. 

XVII 

Cleared  for  sea. 

s.s  Benvenuto,  for  S.  Africa. 

IT  is  ten-thirty  this  clear,  cold  December  day;  the 
sun  shines  on  the  turquoise  patch  of  open  Channel 
which  I  can  see  from  the  bridge  where  I  am  testing 
the  whistle;  the  tide  is  rising;  the  last  cases  of  general 
cargo  are  being  lowered  into  Number  Two  Hold, 
and  from  all  along  the  deck  rise  little  jets  of  steam,  for 
the  Mate  is  already  trying  the  windlass.  Once  more 
we  are  "cleared  for  sea."  In  an  hour's  time  the  tug 
Implacable,  mingling  her  frenzied  little  yelp  with  our 
deeper  note,  will  pull  us  out  into  the  middle  of  the 
dock,  then  round,  and  slowly  through  the  big  gates, 
into  the  locks.  The  hatches  are  already  on  the  after 
combings,  and  sailors  are  spreading  the  tarpaulin 


96  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

covers  over  them  and  battening  down  with  the  big 
wood  wedges. 

"Steam  for  eleven  o'clock,"  said  the  Chief  last 
night.  Right!  The  gauges  are  trembling  over  the 
150  mark  now — enough  to  get  away  with.  "Open 
everything  out,  Mr.  McAlnwick,"  says  the  Second 
as  he  strolls  round  for  a  last  look  before  going  on 
deck.  I  carry  out  the  order,  glance  at  the  water- 
level  in  the  boilers,  and  then  go  for'ard  to  see  how 
many  of  my  firemen  are  missing.  They  should  all 
be  here  by  now.  No,  two  short  still.  Old  Androv- 
sky  rears  himself  up  and  points  with  the  stem  of 
his  pipe  at  the  quay.  The  ship  has  moved  away, 
and  the  two  men  with  sailors'  bags  and  mat- 
tresses are  watching  us.  They  will  get  aboard  in 
the  locks. 

The  Skipper  is  in  uniform  on  the  bridge,  and  the 
Mate  is,  as  usual,  in  a  hurry.  The  mooring  winch 
is  groaning  horribly  as  she  hauls  on  a  cable  running 
from  the  stern  to  the  quay  while  the  tug  pulls  our 
head  slowly  round.  Right  down  to  the  centre  of  the 
loading  disc  now.  The  Second  Mate  rushes  to  the 
fiddle-top,  and  shouts  for  "more  steam" — the  winch 
has  stuck — and  a  howl  from  below  tells  him  that  the 
donkeyman  is  doing  his  best.  As  I  go  below  again 
the  sharp  clang  of  the  telegraph  strikes  my  ear — 
"Standby" 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  97 

The  steam  is  warming  the  engine-room,  and  there 
is,  in  the  atmosphere  down  here,  a  peculiar  pungent 
smell,  always  present  when  getting  away.  It  is,  I 
suppose,  the  smell  of  steam,  if  steam  has  any  smell. 
"Give  'er  a  turn,  Mr.  McAlnwick."  The  Chief 
looks  down  from  the  deck-door,  and  I  answer  "All 
right,  sir."  We  are  moving  into  the  locks  now,  and 
as  I  start  the  little  high-speed  reversing  engine  the 
telegraph  pointer  moves  round  to  "Slow  ahead" 
with  a  sharp  clang.  "Ash-pit  dampers  off!"  cries 
George  the  Fourth,  and  runs  to  close  the  drain-cocks. 
There  is  a  sudden  loud  hammering  as  I  open  the 
throttle,  and  she  moves  away  under  her  own  steam. 
Then  she  sticks  on  a  dead-centre,  a  point  du  mort, 
as  the  French  mecanlciens  say,  and  George  rushes  to 
open  the  intermediate  valve,  kicking  open  the  water- 
service  cock  as  he  goes  past  it.  At  last  she  goes 
away,  slow,  solemn,  and  steamy,  three  pairs  of  eyes 
watching  every  link  and  bar  for  "trouble."  "All 
right?"  asks  the  Chief  from  above,  and  the  Second, 
standing  by  the  staircase,  answers  "All  right,  sir." 
Then  "clang"  goes  the  telegraph  round  to  "Stop," 
and  I  close  the  throttle.  "We're  in  the  locks,"  says 
George,  fiddling  with  an  oil-cup  which  is  loose  on 
the  intermediate  pressure  rod.  "We're  in  the  locks, 
and  we  soon  shall  cross  the  bar."  And  as  he  busies 
himself  with  one  thing  and  another  he  hums  the  tune 


98  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

which  has  swept  over  Swansea  like  some  contagious 
disease  of  late: 

"  When  there  isn't  a  girl  about, 

You  do  feel  lonely  ! 
When  there  isn't  a  girl  about 

To  call  your  only  ! 
You're  absolutely  on  the  shelf, 
Don't  know  what  to  do  with  yourself, 

When  there  isn't  a  girl  about !" 

"Said  good-bye  to  her,  Mac?"  he  asks.     I  nod 
evasively.     He  has  been  home  to  Sunderland  since 
we  got  in,  and  I  found  him  asleep  on  the  gallery  floor, 
with  his  head  in  the  ash-pit,  the  night  of  his  return. 
He  is  better  now,  and  since  I  know  he  has  brought 
back  a  photograph  from  the  north,  I  am  in  hopes  of 
his   having   fallen   in   love.     (Clang !     Slow  ahead?} 
It  is  high  time,   I  think.     His  constitution  won't 
stand  everything,  you  know.     An4  it  seems  such  a 

pity  for  a  fine  young  chap  to (Clang  !     Stop.) 

George  is  recordingt  he  bridge  orders  on  the  black- 
board on  the  bunker  bulkhead,  and  I  wonder 

(Clang!     Slow     ahead.)     A     pause;     then — Clang! 
FULL  AHEAD. 

"Let  her  go  away  gradually,  mister,"  says  the 
Second  as  he  goes  round  to  have  a  look  at  the  pumps. 
Cautiously  the  stop-valve  is  opened  out,  and  the  en- 
gines get  into  their  sixty-two  per-minute  stride.  The 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  99 

firemen  are  at  it  now,  trimmers  are  flogging  away  the 
wedges  from  the  bunker  doors,  and  the  funnel  damper 
is  full  open.  And  then,  and  then — how  shall  I  de- 
scribe the  sensation  of  that  first  delicate  rise  and  fall 
of  the  plates.  I  experience  a  feeling  of  buoyant  life 
under  my  feet!  It  means  we  are  out  at  sea,  that  we 
have  crossed  the  bar.  The  Chief  and  Second  have 
gone  to  get  washed  for  dinner,  George  is  on  deck 
shutting  off  steam  and  watching  the  steering  engine 
for  defects,  and  I  am  left  alone  below  with  a  greaser. 
I  experience  a  feeling  of  exultation  as  I  watch  my 
engines  settle  down  for  their  seven-day  run  to  the 
Canary  Islands.  How  can  I  explain  how  beautiful 
they  are? 

"All  things  bright  and  beautiful. 
All  creatures  great  and  small, 
All  things  wise  and  wonderful, 
The  Lord  God  made  them  all ! " 

Yes,  that  is  how  I  feel  just  now  as  I  pace  round  and 
round,  alert  for  a  leaky  joint  or  a  slackened  nut. 
The  solemn  music  of  the  plunging  rods  is  all  the 
sweeter  for  that  I  have  not  heard  it  for  six  weeks. 
We  are  out  at  sea! 

And  now  George  comes  down  again,  and  I  go  on 
deck  to  get  my  dinner.  We  are  crossing  Swansea 
Bay,  among  the  brown-sailed  trawlers  and  the  in- 


ioo  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

coming  steamships.  The  sun  shines  brightly  on  us 
as  we  bear  away  southward  towards  Lundy,  and 
I  stare  out  silently  across  the  broad  Channel,  think- 
ing. Oh,  my  friend,  stand  by  me  now,  in  this  my 
hour  of  need !  How  foolish !  I  am  alone  at  sea,  and 
my  friend  is  in  London,  puzzling  over  my  behaviour 
to  him. 

The  cool  breeze  against  my  face  arouses  me.  The 
mood  of  exultation  in  my  engines,  the  mood  of  blank 
despair,  both  have  passed,  and  I  am,  I  hope,  myself 
again.  Once  more  "the  kick  o'  the  screw  beneath 
us  and  the  round  blue  seas  outside."  Once  more  the 
wandering  fever  is  in  my  blood,  and,  as  the  winter's 
day  fades  away,  I  stand  against  the  rail  looking  east- 
ward at  the  flashing  lights,  calmer  than  I  have  been 
since  that  night — a  month  ago.  I  am  an  ocean 
tramp  once  more,  and  count  it  life  indeed. 

"And  out  at  sea,  behold  the  dock-lights  die, 
And  meet  my  mate,  the  wind  that  tramps  the  world." 


XVIII 

I  HAVE  been  looking  into  some  of  my  books,  now  that 
the  sea  is  so  calm  and  the  weather  so  enchantingly 
fair.  I  find  a  pleasurable  contrast  in  dipping  into 
such  volumes  as  Boswell's  "Johnson,"  Goldsmith's 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  101 

"Beau  Nash,"  and  Lady  Montague's  "Letters." 
The  life  they  depict  is  so  different,  the  opinions 
they  express  so  dissimilar  from  those  I  have 
myself  gradually  grown  to  affect.  And  what  an 
amazing  farrago  is  that  same  Boswell!  Surely,  if 
ever  a  book  was  written  con  amore,  it  is  that  one. 
Compare  it  with  the  "Life  of  Beau  Nash."  Each  is 
the  biography  of  a  remarkable  man,  but  what  a  differ- 
ence! In  every  line  Goldsmith  displays  a  certain 
forced  interest.  I  do  not  know,  but  I  am  almost 
positive  he  cared  very  little  for  his  subject;  I  feel  that 
the  work  is  only  being  carried  on  for  the  sake  of  gain. 
Regarded  so,  it  is  a  masterly  little  Life.  Two  hun- 
dred small  pages — Nash  merits  no  more  on  the  roll 
of  fame. 

But  the  former,  twelve  hundred  closely  printed 
pages.  No  paltry  little  anecdote  or  incident,  ger- 
mane or  not,  is  too  contemptible  for  him.  The 
identity  of  some  obscure  school,  the  mastership  of 
which  Johnson  never  held,  is  argued  about  until  one 
is  weary  of  the  thing.  The  illegible  note,  written  for 
his  own  eye  alone,  is  construed  in  a  dozen  ways,  and 
judgment  delivered  as  though  the  fate  of  empires  hung 
thereon.  The  smug  complaisance  with  which  he 
cites  some  prayer  or  comment  to  illustrate  his  idol's 
religious  orthodoxy  would  have  angered  me  once — 
did  anger  me  once — but  out  here,  on  the  broad  blue 


102  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

ocean,  I  smile  at  the  toady,  and  marvel  at  the  won- 
drous thing  he  has  wrought. 

Pleasant,  too,  to  turn  the  leaves  of  my  Dryden, 
and  glance  through  some  of  those  admirably  com- 
posed prefaces,  those  egotistical  self-criticisms  so  full 
of  literary  pugnacity,  in  an  age  when  pluck  in  a  poet 
needed  searching  for.  I  often  say  to  folk  who  de- 
plore Bernard  Shaw's  prefatory  egotism  that  if  they 
would  read  Dryden  they  would  discover  that  Shaw 
is  only  up  to  his  own  masterly  old  game  of  imitating 
his  predecessor's  tactics.  But  Shaw  is  quite  safe. 
He  knows  people  do  not  read  the  literature  of  their 
own  land  nowadays. 

I  had  a  laugh  last  evening  all  to  myself  when  I 
noticed  that,  in  a  hasty  re-arrangement  of  my  book- 
shelves, Gorky  stood  shouldering  old  Chaucer  I 
Could  disparity  go  further?  And  yet  each  is  a  mas- 
ter of  his  craft,  each  does  his  work  with  skill — with 
"trade  finish,"  as  we  say.  And  so  it  seemed  to  me 
that,  after  all,  one  might  leave  the  "Romaunt  of  the 
Rose"  side  by  side  with  "Three  of  Them,"  on  condi- 
tion that  each  is  read  and  re-read,  if  only  for  the 
workmanship. 

Cellini,  too,  draws  me  as  regularly  and  irresistibly 
as  the  moon  makes  our  tides.  Here  is  richness. 
The  breathless  impetuosity  of  the  whole  narrative, 
the  inconceivable  truculence  of  the  man,  fascinates 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  103 

me,  who  am  so  different.  When  I  looked  at  that 
"Perseus"  in  Florence,  when  I  leaned  over  the  medal- 
cases  in  South  Kensington  and  stared  hard  at  the 
work  of  his  murderous  hands,  I  felt  awed  and  baffled. 
How  could  he  do  it — he  with  his  dagger  just  with- 
drawn from  some  rival's  shoulders,  his  fingers  just 
unclasped  from  some  enemy's  windpipe?  Then, 
again,  the  virile  cheerfulness  of  the  man!  God  is 
ever  on  his  side,  Justice  is  his  guardian  angel.  And 
while  musing  upon  him  some  few  days  back,  I  fell  to 
wondering  if  I  might  not  imitate  him.  I  mean,  why 
could  not  I  take  the  life  of  some  such  man  (and  I 
know  one  at  least  who  could  sit  for  the  portrait),  and 
write  a  fictitious  autobiography  in  that  truculent, 
bombastic,  interesting  style?  I  have  the  material, 
and  I  believe  I  could  do  it.  What  do  you  think,  old 
friend  ?  It  is  already  one  of  my  plans  for  the  future, 
when  I  am  done  wandering. 

That  last  word  reminds  me  of  my  Borrow.  Who 
can  describe  the  bewildering  delight  when  one  first 
plunges  into  "Lavengro"  and  the  "Romany  Rye"? 
To  take  them  from  the  bookcase  and  carry  them  out 
to  Barnet,  where  the  Kingmaker  fell,  and  read  with 
the  wind  in  your  face  and  the  Great  North  Road 
before  your  eyes — is  that  too  much  to  ask  of  mine 
ancient  Londoner?  Believe  me,  the  thing  is  worth 
doing.  No  man  ever  put  so  divine  an  optimism 


104  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

into  his  books,  so  genuine  a  love  of  "nature."  Says 
Mr.  Petulengro:  "There's  night  and  day,  brother, 
both  sweet  things;  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  brother,  all 
sweet  things;  there's  likewise  the  wind  on  the  heath. 
Life  is  very  sweet,  brother;  who  would  wish  to  die?" 
One  of  the  most  precious  memories  of  my  younger 
manhood  is  brought  back  to  me  as  I  write  those 
words.  It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  late  autumn, 
in  one  of  those  unfrequented  ways  which  slant  off 
from  the  Great  North  Road  beyond  Hadley  Heath, 
where  the  green  turf  bordered  the  brown  road  and 
the  leaves  covered  the  earth  beneath  the  trees  with 
a  carpet  of  flaming  cloth-of-gold.  I  had  left  my 
book  and  bicycle  to  one  side,  and,  seated  upon  a 
low  grey  stone  wall,  I  watched  the  sun  go  down. 
Behind  me,  across  the  intervening  meadows,  rose 
clouds  of  dust,  redolent  of  waste  gases,  where  thun- 
dered an  ever-increasing  traffic  of  swift  vehicles. 
In  front  a  vaporous  mist  was  rising  from  the  land; 
the  shadows  broadened,  and  the  red  western  glow 
grew  deeper,  while  in  the  middle  distance  a  tiny 
child,  clad  in  green  cloak  and  little  red  hood,  stood 
conning  her  Sunday  story — a  jewel  of  quiet  colour 
in  the  gathering  autumn  twilight.  And  so,  as  I 
listened  to  the  roar  from  the  macadamed  highway 
and  looked  out  upon  that  evening  glory,  it  was  as 
though  I  heard,  far  off,  the  throbbing  pulse  of  the 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  105 

great  world's  mighty  hand,  while  I  sat  still  in  the 
heart  of  it. 

"Life  is  very  sweet,  brother:  who  would  wish  to 
die?" 

XIX 

Is  ALL  this  too  bookish  for  an  ocean  tramp?  Alas! 
I  fear  I  grow  too  cocksure  of  my  literary  attain- 
ments out  here,  with  none  to  check  me.  It  is  in 
London  where  a  man  finds  his  true  level  in  the  book 
world,  as  Johnson  shrewdly  observed.  In  the  even- 
ing, when  we  are  gathered  over  the  fire,  and  opinions 
fly  across  and  rebound,  when  one  hears  bookmen 
talk  of  books,  and  painters  talk  of  art — that  is  the 
time  when  I  feel  myself  so  unutterably  insignificant. 

Often  I  have  looked  across  at  T ,  or  G ,  or 

,  someone  I  know  even  better  than  them,  and 

I  feel  discouraged.  You  men  have  done  things, 
while  I — well,  I  talk  about  doing  things,  and  try, 
feebly  enough,  to  make  my  talking  good;  but  to 

what  end?     T has  his  work  in  many  a  public 

building   and    sacred  edifice;  G has  his  books 

on  our  tables  and  in  the  circulating  libraries;  and 
you  have  done  things,  too,  in  dramatic  literature. 

Meanwhile  I  am  an  engine-driver  on  the  high  seas! 
I  know  my  work  is  in  the  end  as  honourable  and  more 
useful  than  yours,  but  I  cannot  always  keep  back  a 


'io6  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

I  • 

jealous  feeling  when  I  think  of  the  years  sliding  by, 

and  nothing  done.  Nothing  ever  finished,  not  even 
— but  there!  That  chapter  of  my  life  is  finished  and 
done  with,  incomplete  as  the  story  will  be  always. 
Often  and  often,  under  the  stars  at  midnight,  I  think 
that  if  she  would  stand  by  me,  I  could  be  nearer  suc- 
cess— I  could  take  hold  of  life  and  wrench  away  the 
difficulties  of  it.  And  then  again  comes  a  more 
valiant,  manly  mood.  I  say  to  myself,  I  will  do 
something  yet.  I  will  reach  the  heights,  and  show 
her  that  one  man  at  least  can  stand  on  his  own  feet. 
I  will  show  her  that  she  need  have  no  need  to  be 
ashamed  of  him,  though  no  carpet-knight,  only  an 
engine-driver.  And  I  recall  that  brave  song  in  the 
"Gay  Pretenders": 

"  /  am  not  what  she'd  have  me  be, 
I  am  no  courtier  fair  to  see; 
And  yet  no  other  in  the  land, 
I  swear,  shall  take  my  lady's  hand .'" 

Well,  that  is  my  high  resolve  sometimes,  and  I 
will  try  to  keep  it  in  front  of  me  always,  and  so  do 
something  at  last. 

Well,  well,  this  is  sad  talk  for  the  day  before 
Christmas!  Come  away  from  books  and  trouble, 
out  on  deck,  where  there  is  a  breeze.  The  mighty 
Norseman  is  ready  to  cut  my  hair,  and  is  waiting 
the  engine-room  under  the  awning. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  107 

It  is  the  donkeyman's  business,  aboard  this  ship, 
to  cut  the  officers'  hair.  A  marvellous  man,  a  good 
donkeyman.  And  this  one  of  ours  is  multi-marvel- 
lous, for  he  can  do  anything.  He  speaks  Swedish, 
Danish,  Russian,  German,  and  excellent  English. 
He  has  been  a  blacksmith,  butcher,  fireman,  greaser, 
tinsmith,  copper-smelter,  and  now,  endlich,  enfin, 
at  last,  a  donkeyman.  His  frame  is  gigantic,  his 
strength  prodigious.  On  his  chest  is  a  horrific 
picture  of  the  Crucifixion  in  red,  blue,  and  green 
tattoo.  Between  the  Christ  and  the  starboard  thief 
is  a  great  triangular  scar  of  smooth,  shiny  skin.  One 
of  his  colossal  knees  is  livid  with  scars.  He  tells  me 
the  story  like  this,  keeping  time  with  the  click  of 
the  scissors. 

"When  I  was  a  kid  I  was  a  wild  devil.  Why,  I 
ran  away  with  a  circus  that  came  to  Stockholm, 
and  my  father  he  came  after  me  and  he  nearly  kill 
me.  Then,  one  day,  I  had  on — what  you  call  'em, 
mister? — long  shoes,  eight,  ten  feet  long — ah!  yes, 
we  call  'em  ski.  Well,  I  go  to  jump  thirty,  forty 
feet,  and  I  am  only  twelve  years  old.  The  strap 
come  off  my  foot  and  I  have  not  time  to  shift  my 
balance  to  the  other  foot,  and  I  go  over  and  over,  like 
a  stone.  I  come  down  on  my  knee,  and  there  are 
beer-bottles  on  the  rocks.  The  English  and  Ger- 
mans, they  drink  beer  on  the  rocks — beautiful 


io8  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Swedish  beer,  better  than  Lowenbrau,  hein!  Well, 
they  take  out  of  my  knee  fifty  pieces  of  glass — you 
see  the  marks?  And  my  chest  it  is  smashed  bad. 
They  cut  off  three  rib  and  look  inside;  this  is  where 
they  look  into  my  chest.  All  right!  They  put  ribs 
back  and  box  all  up.  Oh,  I  was  a  wild  devil  when 
I  was  a  kid!" 

Such  is  Johann  Nicanor  Gustaffsen,  with  his  huge 
strength,  frescoed  chest,  and  pasty  face  with  the 
jolly  blue  eyes.  I  think  the  women  like  him,  and, 
by  the  hammer  of  Thor!  he  can  bend  a  bar  of  iron 
across  his  knee! 


XX 

IT  is  Christmas  Day,  and  I  begin  it  with  the  clock 
as  usual.  George  the  Fourth  punches  me  in  the 
ribs,  grunts,  "Merry  new  Christmas,  Mac,"  and 
vanishes.  There  is  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring. 
Through  the  sultry  night  air  the  stars  burn  brightly. 
A  cluster  of  blurred  lights  on  the  horizon  show  me 
where  a  liner  is  creeping  past  us  in  the  darkness — a 
ship  passing  in  the  night.  Clad  only  in  dungaree 
trousers  and  singlet,  I  go  below,  on  watch.  The 
windsail  hangs  limp  and  breathless,  and  the  ther- 
mometer stands  at  120°  Fah.  Christmas  Day! 
Slowly  in  the  hot  air  the  hours  drag  on.  One, 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  109 

two,  three  o'clock.  Then,  "one  bell."  No  breeze 
yet.  I  finish  up,  score  my  log  on  the  blackboard — 
Sea  water  90°,  discharge  116° — and  call  the  Second. 
He  is  awake,  panting  in  the  hot  oven  of  his  berth. 
If  I  wish  him  a  merry  Christmas  he  will  murder  me. 
I  slink  below  again,  and  have  a  sea  bath.  Even 
salt  water  at  90°  Fah.  is  a  boon  after  four  hours  in 
that  inferno. 

A  mug  of  cocoa — strange  how  hot  cocoa  cools  one — 
and  I  turn  in.  I  hear  the  Skipper  padding  up  and 
down  in  his  sandals  on  the  poop,  clad  only  in  py- 
jamas. At  last,  as  the  stars  are  paling,  I  fall  asleep. 

At  seven  o'clock  I  am  aroused  by  the  mess-room 
steward  leaning  over  me,  closing  my  ports.  They 
are  flooding  the  decks  with  sea-water  to  cool  them, 
and  if  my  ports  are  open  I  am  also  flooded. 

Still  no  relief.  There  is  a  deathly  quiet  in  the 
mess-room  as  we  assembled  to  our  Christmas  break- 
fast of  bacon  and  eggs,  coffee,  cocoa,  and  marmalade. 
Imagine  such  a  menu  in  the  tropics!  The  butter  is 
liquid,  and  from  each  of  us,  clad  in  singlets  and  white 
ducks,  the  sweat  streams.  The  day  begins  un- 
propitiously. John  Thomas,  the  mess-room  stew- 
ard, balancing  himself  on  the  top  step  of  our  com- 
panion-way with  three  cups  of  boiling  cocoa  in  his 
hands,  slips  and  thunders  to  the  bottom.  There  is 
a  chaotic  mixture  of  scalded  boy,  broken  cups,  and 


i  io  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

steam  on  the  floor,  and  we  giggle  nervously  in  our 
Turkish  bath. 

George  the  Fourth  goes  on  watch,  and  we  lie 
listlessly  under  our  awning,  praying  for  a  breeze. 
On  the  face  of  the  blazing  vault  there  is  not  a  single 
cloud,  on  the  face  of  the  waters  not  a  ripple.  The 
sea  is  a  vast  pond  of  paraffin.  The  hot  gases  from 
the  funnel  rise  vertically,  and  the  sun  quivers  behind 
them.  The  flaps  of  the  windsail  hang  dead,  the  sides 
of  the  canvas  tube  have  fallen  in  like  the  neck  of  a 
skinny  old  man.  Slowly  the  sun  mounts  over  our 
heads  and  the  air  grows  hotter  and  hotter.  From 
the  galley  come  sounds  of  quacking,  and  a  few  feath- 
ers roll  slowly  past  us.  Now  and  then  an  agonized 
trimmer  will  stagger  out  of  a  bunker  hatch  into  the 
open  air,  his  half-naked  body  black  with  coal-dust 
and  gleaming  with  sweat.  The  Mate,  in  a  big  straw 
hat,  paces  the  bridge  slowly.  The  cook  emerges 
from  the  galley  and  hastens  aft  for  provisions — they 
are  preparing  our  Christmas  dinner.  Roast  duck, 
green  peas,  new  potatoes,  plum  pudding — and  the 
temperature  is  105°  Fah.  on  deck. 

One  bell.  I  rise,  and  go  below  to  change  for  my 
watch — 12  to  4. 

"Will  you  take  any  dinner,  sir?"  John  Thomas 
rubs  the  sweat  from  his  forehead  and  sets  the  soup 
on  the  table.  I  ponder  on  the  madness  of  eating 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  in 

Christmas  fare  in  that  oven-like  mess-room,  but 
sentiment  wins,  and  I  sit  down  with  the  others. 

"Hoondred  an'  twenty  oonder  t'  win's'le,"  whis- 
pers George  to  me  huskily. 

"What's  the  sea-water?"  asks  the  Chief. 

"Eighty-nine,  sir." 

We  push  the  soup  aside,  and  John  Thomas  brings 
in  the  roast  ducks.  How  appetizing  they  would  be 
at  home!  The  Chief  wrenches  them  apart  in  per- 
spiring silence,  and  we  fall  to.  We  peck  at  the  food; 
the  sweat  drops  from  our  faces  into  the  plates,  the 
utensils  slide  from  our  hands,  and  so  we  make  the 
best  of  it.  But  when  the  pudding  arrives  our  cour- 
age fails  us.  We  cannot  face  plum  pudding,  senti- 
ment or  no  sentiment.  We  gulp  down  some  lime- 
juice  and  stagger  away  like  dying  men — I  to  four 
hours'  purgatory  below. 

Slowly  (oh,  so  slowly!)  the  time  drags  on.  The 
greaser  draws  his  tattooed  arm  across  his  eyes  and 
whispers,  with  the  triumph  of  a  lost  soul  bragging 
of  the  Circle  of  Fire,  that  he  has  known  it  "  'otter'n 
this  in  the  Red  Sea,  sir."  He  is  an  entertaining  man. 
Often  I  hear  tales  from  the  wide  world  of  waters  from 
his  lips.  This  is  his  last  voyage,  he  tells  me.  He  is 
going  "shore  donkeyman"  in  future — what  you  call 
longshoreman.  His  wife  has  a  nice  little  business  in 
Neath  now,  and  "she  wants  'im  'ome."  Have  I 


ii2  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

noticed  how  that  high-press  guide  is  leaking  ?  Should 
he  tighten  up  the  tap-bolts  in  the  bottom  plate?  I 
dissent,  because  one  cannot  reach  them  safely  while 
she  is  running.  It  is  only  a  trifle;  better  let  it  go. 
He  acquiesces  doubtfully,  and  resumes  greasing. 
And  the  hours  drift  by. 

At  four  o'clock  the  Second  relieves  me,  looking 
reproachfully  at  the  slackened  windsail.  Still  no 
breeze.  And  the  greaser,  who  does  not  go  off  till 
six  o'clock,  observes,  "Oh,  wot  a — 'appy  Christmas!" 
Which  would  be  profane  if  the  temperature  were 
lower. 

I  change  into  white  ducks  again  and  saunter  up 
to  the  bridge  to  talk  to  my  friend  the  Mate.  If  I 
were  to  paraphrase  Johnson's  burst  of  energy,  I 
should  say,  "Sir,  I  love  the  Mate!" 

"Merry  Christmas,  Mr.  McAlnwick!"  he  shouts 
cheerfully  from  the  upper  bridge,  and  a  chorus  of 
yelping  dogs  joyfully  take  up  the  cry.  They  are  the 
"Old  Man's,"  but  they  follow  the  Mate  up  and  down 
until  they  drop  with  fatigue.  Black  silky  spaniel, 
rough-red  Irish  terrier,  black  and  grey  badger-toed 
Scotch  half-breed,  nameless  mongrel — they  all  love 
the  Mate.  "Come  here,"  he  says,  and  I  climb  up 
to  his  level. 

"The  Old  Man  had  a  letter  this  mornin',"  he  says. 

"Eh?"  I  remark  blankly. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  113 

"Ah!     His  wife  gave  it  me  before  we  sailed  an* 
I  left  it  on  his  table  this  mornin'  !     Says  he,  at  break- 
fast, 'Pshaw!'  says  he,  'it's  a  waste  o'  paper."1 

"Mr.  Honna,"  I  say,  "perhaps  he'll  be  sorry  for 
saying  that,  eh?" 

"He  will,  he  will — some  day,  Mr.  Mac,"  and  he 
walks  up  and  down  the  bridge  for  a  bit,  smoking  the 
pipe  his  children  gave  him  for  a  present  last  Christ- 
mas. I  ask  him: 

"When  shall  we  strike  the  trade  wind,  Mr. 
Honna?" 

"Soon,  soon.  'T  ought  to  be  here  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

I  climb  down  again,  and  sniff  eagerly  for  the  first 
beginnings  of  a  breeze.  Nothing,  unless  you  are 
optimistic  and  like  to  stare  at  a  brown  streak  away 
southward,  between  sky  and  sea. 

I  reach  the  engineers'  awning  aft  of  the  engine- 
room,  and  see  the  Chief  in  his  chair,  the  Fourth  in 
his  hammock,  and  the  Second  just  come  up  for  tea. 
I  open  my  mouth  and  speak,  when  the  regular  throb 
of  the  engines  is  broken  by  a  scream.  Like  a  flash 
each  one  springs  to  his  feet  and  looks  at  the  others. 
The  regular  throb  goes  on  as  before,  and  George 
laughs,  but  the  Second  disappears  through  the 
door,  I  following.  I  shall  not  easily  forget  that 
scream. 


ii4  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Half-way  down,  a  fireman,  his  face  blanching  under 
the  coal-dust  and  sweat,  meets  us. 

"What's  up?"  snaps  the  Second. 

"Donkeyman,  sir.  In  the  crankpit!"  He  plunges 
downward  again,  and  we  do  the  same.  Down  into 
the  fierce  oily  heat  illuminated  by  the  electrics  in 
front  of  each  engine.  The  second  puts  two  fingers 
in  his  mouth  and  whistles  shrilly  to  those  above. 
And  then  we  fall  to  work.  The  telegraph  is  flung 
over  to  "Stop,"  the  throttle  is  closed,  ashpit  damper 
put  on,  and  the  regular  throb  slackens,  hesitates, 
stops.  With  a  dexterous  flick  of  the  reversing  en- 
gine the  Second  catches  the  high-press  engine  on  the 
stop  centre  and  locks  her  there.  And  then  we  look. 

Far  better  for  him,  poor  lad,  if  he  had  taken  my 
tip  and  left  those  tap-bolts  to  leak.  The  Second 
says  "Hand-lamp,"  and  I  give  him  one.  People 
are  coming  down  the  stairs  in  numbers  now,  and  the 
Chief  rushes  up  to  us,  looks  down,  and  turns  away 
sickened.  The  ponderous  cranks  have  blood  dashed 
across  them,  the  rod  is  streaked  and  lathered  with  it. 
From  the  bottom  of  the  pit  comes  no  sound,  no  move- 
ment. Lying  on  the  plates  is  the  spanner  which 
must  have  spun  from  his  hand  as  he  fell  to  destruc- 
tion. 

"Now  then,  how  many  more?"  snarls  the  Second. 
Sweat  streams  from  his  face  as  he  pushes  the  intrud- 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  115 

ers  away  and  lifts  a  man-hole  plate  in  the  platform. 
I  seize  the  hand-lamp  and  get  down  on  to  the  tank, 
and  the  Second  follows.  It  is  not  pleasant,  under- 
stand, down  there,  where  bilge  collects  and  rats  run 
riot,  and  grease  is  rolled  into  filthy  black  balls,  and 
the  stench  is  intolerable.  I  push  on  towards  the  pit. 


A  full  moon,  blood-red  and  enormous,  hangs  just 
above  the  eastern  sky-line.  In  the  west  still  burns 
the  glow  of  the  vanishing  sun,  and  the  pale  sky 
is  twinkling  with  innumerable  stars.  The  regular 
throb  of  the  engines  drives  the  ship  forward  again, 
a  sailor  is  hauling  down  the  red  ensign  from  the  poop, 
and  another  moves  to  and  fro,  silhouetted  against 
the  southern  sky,  on  the  foc'sle-head.  Just  ahead 
of  the  bridge  two  more  sailors  sit  busily  sewing.  The 
Old  Man  stands  by  the  chart-house  door  talking 
to  the  Mate.  The  dogs  lie  quietly  on  the  lower 
deck,  their  heads  between  their  paws. 

In  the  after-hatch,  covered  by  the  flag,  lies  that 
which  is  about  to  be  committed  to  the  deep. 

The  red  glow  fades  from  the  west,  and  the  moon 
swings  upward,  flooding  the  sea  with  silver  light. 
Away  southward  lies  a  black  streak  on  the  sky-line 
and  the  windsail  flickers  a  little.  The  two  sailors 
have  finished  sewing,  and  go  aft.  A  fireman  breaks 


n6  ,4 W  OCEAN  TRAMP 

the  deck  silence  as  he  hoists  two  firebars  up  from 
the  for'ard  stokehold  and  carries  them  aft.  Up 
on  the  poop,  under  the  awning,  the  Second  Mate  has 
removed  the  hand-rails  on  the  starboard  quarter, 
and  the  carpenter  is  lashing  some  hatches  in  an  in- 
clined position. 

We  by  the  engine-room  door  are  silent,  for  there 
is  nothing  to  say.  We  wait  for  the  Stand  by  bell  in 
silence.  A  heavy  footfall,  and  the  Skipper,  his 
bronzed  face  hard-drawn,  his  snowy  hair  uncovered, 
passes  us.  I  think,  even  now,  he  is  sorry  for  that 
sneer  at  his  wife's  little  trick.  He  is  going  to  get  the 
Prayer  Book  that  lies  close  to  his  revolver  in  his  chest. 

George  and  I  go  below  and  make  all  ready.  I 
think  the  Second  is  glad  of  our  company,  in  the  ter- 
rible heat.  We  potter  about  in  silence:  then  "Stand 
by — Half — Slow — Stop."  A  few  minutes'  swift  toil, 
a  hurried  wash,  and  we  climb  up  on  deck  again  into 
the  moonlight.  A  white,  silent  world  of  waters  is 
about  us  as  we  join  the  crew  going  aft  to  the  poop. 
The  awning  has  been  partly  folded  back,  and  we 
see  the  Skipper  resting  his  book  on  the  tiller-gear, 
while  the  Steward  stands  by  with  a  lantern.  I  look 
curiously  into  the  faces  I  know  so  well,  seeking,  in  the 
presence  of  death,  a  little  more  knowledge  of  life.  I 
look  at  the  Skipper,  with  his  white  hair  and  fierce 
moustache  gleaming  in  the  silver  radiance  of  the 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  117 

moon,  his  hands  fumbling  with  the  leaves  of  the 
book.  I  look  at  the  Chief,  fidgeting  about  in  the 
rear,  meeting  no  one's  eye,  his  mouth  working  ner- 
vously. I  look  at  George  the  Fourth;  he  is  staring 
like  a  schoolboy  at  the  flag-covered  thing  on  the 
hatch,  with  the  firebars  lashed  to  its  sides.  And  then 
the  silence  is  broken  by  the  harsh,  unsteady  voice: 

"/  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life" 

The  tension  is  almost  unbearable  now.  We  have 
not  been  educated  to  this.  We  are  like  soldiers 
suddenly  flung  into  the  face  of  the  enemy. 

"  We  therefore  commit  his  body  to  the  deep,  to  be  turned 
into  corruption,  looking  for  the  resurrection  of  the 
body  (when  the  sea  shall  give  up  her  dead),  and  the  life 
of  the  world  to  come,  through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ; 
who  at  his  coming  shall  change  our  vile  body  that  it 
may  be  like  his  glorious  body,  according  to  the  mighty 
working,  whereby  he  is  able  to  subdue  all  things  to 
himself" 

A  pause,  and  he  closes  the  book.  Two  of  the  men 
quietly  slacken  the  ropes  which  hold  the  body  in 
position,  another  pulls  off  the  flag,  and  the  dark  mass 
on  the  planks  plunges  downward  into  the  oily  sea. 
Another  pause,  while  I  picture  it  rushing  "down  to 
the  dark,  to  the  utter  dark,  where  the  blind  white 
sea-snakes  are,"  and  the  Chief  motions  furtively 
with  his  fingers. 


n8  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

In  a  few  minutes  we  are  under  way. 


It  is  eight  bells,  midnight,  once  more.  The  sky 
to  the  southward  is  a  jet-black  mass  of  clouds,  and 
the  windsail  is  yawing  in  a  strong,  cool  breeze.  Away 
to  the  westward  the  moon  still  throws  her  glory  over 
the  face  of  the  waters  and  I  go  below,  thinking  of 
the  night  coming,  when  no  man  shall  work. 

And  so  ends  our  Christmas  Day. 

XXI 

IT  is  Sunday,  and  I  lie  under  the  awning  by  the 
engine-room  door,  lazily  reading  "Faust."  There  is  a 
speck  on  the  sky-line — the  mail  boat,  bringing  a 
letter  from  my  friend.  I  look  round  at  the  translu- 
cent opal  of  the  bay,  the  glittering  white  of  the  surf  on 
the  reef,  the  downward  swoop  on  an  albatross,  and  I 
listen  to  the  dull  roar  of  the  breakers,  to  the  solemn 
tang-tang  of  the  bell-buoy  on  the  bar,  and  the  com- 
plaisant "ah-ha-a-a"  of  some  argumentative  penguin. 
Even  the  drab-coloured  African  hills  in  the  distance, 
and  the  corrugated  Catholic  church  (shipped  in 
sections)  with  the  sun  blazing  on  its  windows,  are 
beautiful  to  me  to-day,  for  I  am  not  of  those  who 
think  religion  is  ugly  because  it  is  corrugated,  or  that 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  119 

hills  are  repulsive  because  they  are  not  in  the  guide- 
book. I  am  at  peace,  and  so  are  the  rest.  My 
friend  the  Mate  is  fishing,  but  that,  of  course,  is 
trite;  the  Mate  is  always  fishing.  I  fancy  the  cod 
nudge  each  other  and  wink  when  they  see  his  old 
face  looking  down  into  those  opalescent  depths,  and 
watch  him  feeling  at  his  lines  for  a  bite.  How  they 
must  have  joked  together  this  morning  when  he 
gave  a  shout  and  called  for  help,  for  he  could  not 
lift  the  line!  We  all  responded  to  the  call,  and  the 
line  came  up  slowly.  "Must  be  a  whopper,"  mut- 
tered the  Mate,  and  refused  my  callous  suggestion 
that  it  was  a  coal-bag  which  had  got  entangled  in  the 
hook.  At  last,  after  an  eternity  of  hauling,  came  up 
part  of  an  iron  bedstead,  dropped  from  some  steamer 
in  the  long  ago.  But  the  true  fisherman  has  re- 
serves of  philosophy  to  cope  with  such  slings  and 
arrows  of  outrageous  fortune. 

Meanwhile  the  speck  has  enlarged  itself  into  a  blot 
with  a  tag  above  it  and  some  cotton-woolly  smoke. 
'  'Tis  the  tfautilas"  observes  the  Mate,  and  he  calls 
it  "Naughty  Lass"  with  hibernian  unconsciousness 
of  his  own  humour.  I  wonder,  now,  why  it  is  that 
we  sailor  men  invariably  display  such  frantic  feminine 
interest  when  another  craft  heaves  in  sight.  The 
most  contemptible  fishing  boat  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay, 
when  she  appears  on  the  horizon,  receives  the  notice 


120  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

of  all  hands — the  old  as  well  as  the  young.  And  when 
we  pass  a  sister  ship,  the  Aretino  or  the  Cosimo  or 
the  Angela,  in  mid-ocean,  we  talk  about  her  and 
criticise  her,  and  rake  out  her  past  history,  for  days. 
I  sometimes  think,  from  hints  the  Mate  drops,  that 
our  own  Benvenuto  has  a  past,  a  St.  John's  Wood 
past  I  mean,  not  a  Haymarket  past.  But  he  will 
have  no  talk  by  others  against  the  ship.  "What's 
the  matter  with  the  ship  ? "  he  will  shout.  "  Damn  it 
all,  I  like  the  ship-!  She's  a  good  old  ship,  an'  I  glory 
in  her ! "  So  we  talk  scandal  about  the  others  instead. 
Here,  on  the  ragged  edge  of  the  Empire,  things  are 
managed  expeditiously  by  the  authorities.  Scarcely 
an  hour  after  the  Nautilas  has  dropped  her  pick 
the  tugboat  comes  out  again  and  flings  us  our  mail. 
Bosun  and  donkeyman  trudge  aft  and  take  the  letters 
for  the  foc'sle,  the  mess-room  steward  deposits  a 
letter  in  my  lap,  and  I  think  of  my  friend.  At  this 
moment  he  is  engaged  in  repartee  with  the  house- 
keeper as  she  lays  the  table  for  tea.  The  heavy 
twilight  is  settling  down  over  the  river  outside; 
lovers  are  pacing  the  walk  as  they  return  from  their 
Sunday  tramp.  Possibly,  too,  that  fantastic  scene 
which  he  has  described  to  me  is  now  enacting.  He  is 
at  the  piano;  the  housekeeper,  in  tears,  is  on  her 
knees  beside  him,  and  they  raise  their  melodious 
voices  "for  those  in  peril  on  the  sea."  How  affecting, 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  121 

for  one  to  be  so  remembered!  I  thank  them  both 
with  all  my  heart. 

And  now  he  tells  me  that  his  play  goes  well,  and 
I  am  glad.  It  will  indeed  be  a  red-letter  day  when 
I  pay  my  shilling  and  climb  into  the  gallery  to  see 
his  work.  No,  I  shall  not  criticise.  Probably  I 
shall  hardly  listen.  I  shall  be  thinking  many 
thoughts,  dreaming  dreams,  feeling  simply  very 
glad  and  very  proud. 

I  sympathise  always  with  his  struggles  with  his 
•personnel,  but  I  think,  though,  he  hardly  allows 
enough  for  the  point  of  view.  These  actors  and 
actresses  are  not  literary.  (They  should  be,  I  know.) 
They  look  at  an  author's  work  as  a  man  looks  at  the 
universe — a  small  part  at  a  time.  That  trite  old 
paradox  that,  to  the  actor,  the  part  is  greater  than 
the  whole,  should  never  be  forgotten.  Remember, 
too,  how  "touchy,"  as  he  calls  it,  they  must  be,  in 
the  nature  of  things.  Their  touchiness,  their  affecta- 
tion, their  lack  of  culture — all  are  inherent  in  them. 
Their  success  is  always  immediate,  using  the  word  in 
its  literal  sense  as  a  metaphysician  would  use  it; 
the  author's  success  is  mediate,  through  time  and 
trial.  So  one  should  not  be  discouraged  because 
they  fail  to  appreciate  one's  efforts  to  give  them  the 
atmosphere  of  the  period.  They  will  get  the  atmos- 
phere intuitively,  or  not  at  all. 


122  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

He  complains  of  "loss  of  time,"  "thankless  task," 
"inefficiency,"  and  the  like.  Now,  I  think  that  is 
grumbling  without  cause.  Take  my  own  case,  for 
example.  I  have  no  problems  of  dramatic  art  to 
wrestle  with,  only  the  problem  of  coal  consumption. 
But  it  is  ultimately  the  same  thing,  i.e.,  energy.  My 
friend  mourns  the  shameful  loss  of  energy  incident 
to  the  production  of  a  decent  presentment  of  his 
dramatic  conception.  I,  as  an  engineer,  mourn  over 
the  hideous  loss  of  coal  incidental  to  the  propulsion 
of  the  ship.  The  loss  in  his  case,  I  suppose,  is  incal- 
culable: in  mine  it  is  nearly  seventy  per  cent.  Think 
of  it  for  a  moment.  The  Lusitanias  furnaces  con- 
sume one  thousand  tons  of  coal  per  day,  seven  hun- 
dred of  which  are,  in  all  probability,  lost  in  the  in- 
efficiency of  the  steam-engine  as  a  prime  mover.  It 
runs  through  the  whole  of  our  life,  my  friend !  Waste, 
waste,  waste!  What  we  call  the  perfect  cycle, 
the  conversion  of  energy  into  heat  and  heat  into 
energy,  cannot,  in  practice,  be  accomplished  without 
loss.  What  may  interest  you  still  more  is  that  we 
cannot,  even  in  theory,  calculate  on  no  loss  whatever 
in  the  progress  of  the  cycle,  and  by  this  same  "en- 
tropy loss,"  as  we  call  it,  some  of  our  more  reckless 
physicists  foresee  the  running  down  of  the  great 
universe-machine  some  day,  and  so  eliminating  both 
plays  and  steam-engines  from  the  problem  altogether. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  123 

But  this  is  my  point.  Prodigious  loss  is  the  law  of 
nature  which  she  imposes  both  on  artist  and  artisan. 
Indeed,  artist  and  artisan  have  their  reason  of  being 
in  that  loss,  as  I  think  you  will  admit. 

Again,  history  will  corroborate  my  contention  as 
to  the  catholicity  of  this  loss.  Imagine  the  French 
Revolution,  the  Lutheran  Reformation,  the  "Cath- 
olic" Reaction,  and  the  like,  to  be  revolutions  of  the 
vast  human  engine.  Consider  then  the  loss  of  power. 
Consider  the  impulse,  the  enormous  impulse,  ap- 
plied to  the  piston,  and  then  look  at  the  result. 
What  losses  in  leakages,  in  cooled  enthusiasms,  in 
friction-heat,  in  (pardon  the  ludicrous  analogy) 
waste  gases!  Think,  too,  of  the  loss  involved  in 
unbalanced  minds,  as  in  unbalanced  engines,  one 
mass  of  bigoted  inertia  retarding  another  mass! 
Oh,  my  friend,  my  friend,  you  talk  of  "losses"  as 
though  you  playwrights  had  a  monopoly  of  it.  Ask 
men  of  all  trades,  of  all  faiths,  and  they  will  give 
you,  in  their  answers,  increased  knowledge  of  human 
life. 

Such,  at  least,  is  my  method — digging  into  the 
hearts  of  men.  Take,  for  instance,  my  friend  the 
Second  Officer.  A  tall,  lean  young  man,  with  an 
iron  jaw  under  his  brown  beard.  I  began  to  talk 
to  him  one  evening  because  he  said  he  never  had 
letters  from  home.  He  had  a  sister,  he  told  me,  but 


124  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

there  was  no  joy  in  the  telling.  "We  don't  hit  it 
off,"  he  observed  grimly,  and  I  smiled.  He  has  no 
sweetheart,  loves  nothing  but  dogs.  How  he  loves 
dogs!  He  has  two  at  his  heels  all  day  long.  He 
loves  them  almost  as  much  as  dogs  love  the  Chief 
Officer,  which  is  to  distraction.  He  will  take  the 
solemn  English  terrier  up  on  his  knee  and  give  me  a 
lecture  thereon.  This  same  pup,  I  learn,  is  "low" — 
look  at  his  nose!  He  is  in  bad  health — just  feel  his 
back  teeth!  Saucy?  Yes,  certainly,  but  not  a 
thoroughbred  hair  on  him.  He  has  worms,  too,  I 
understand,  somewhere  inside,  and  on  several  oc- 
casions during  the  voyage  his  bowels  needed  atten- 
tion. I,  in  my  utter  ignorance  of  dog-lore,  begin  to 
marvel  that  the  animal  holds  together  at  all  under 
the  stress  of  these  deficiencies.  Perhaps  the  dirt 
which  he  collects  by  rolling  about  on  deck  affords 
a  protective  covering.  Once  a  week,  however,  his 
lord  and  master  divests  him  of  even  this  shadowy 
defence,  and  he  emerges  from  a  bucket,  clean,  soapy, 
and  coughing  violently.  In  all  probability  he  re- 
joices in  consumption  as  well. 

The  Second  Officer,  I  say,  teaches  me  philosophy. 
He  has  had  a  hard  life,  I  think.  By  sheer  industry 
he  has  risen  from  common  sailor  to  his  present  berth. 
I  say  "sheer"  because  it  seems  to  me  that  when  a 
man  has  no  friends  or  relations  who  care  to  write 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  125 

to  him,  the  way  of  life  must  be  very  steep  indeed. 
I  was  surprised,  though,  to  learn  of  his  loneliness. 
Had  he,  then,  no  kindly  light  to  lead  him  on?  Un- 
consciously he  answered  me.  Would  I  come  down 
below  and  have  something  to  drink?  With  pleasure; 
and  so  we  went.  The  last  time  I  had  been  in  that 
room  was  when  his  predecessor,  the  little  man  with 
four  children  and  a  house  of  his  own,  had  extended 
hospitality  to  me.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  room.  A 
spare  bunk  full  of  canvas  bolts,  cordage,  and  other 
stores,  make  it  untidy;  and  the  Steward's  stores  are 
just  behind  the  after  bulkhead,  so  that  it  smells 
like  a  ship-chandler's  warehouse.  Well,  we  sit 
down,  and  the  whiskey  passes.  We  light  cigars 
(magnificent  Campania  Generals  at  three  farthings 
each),  and  then  he  ferrets  about  in  his  locker.  I 
look  at  the  pictures.  Almanack  issued  by  a  rope- 
maker  in  Manchester;  photo  of  an  Irish  terrier,  legs 
wide  part,  tail  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  to  the  rest 
of  him;  photo  of  Scotch  terrier,  short  legs,  fat  body, 
ears  like  a  donkey's;  photo  of  the  officers  of  s.s. 
Timbuctoo,  in  full  uniform,  my  friend  among  them, 
taken  on  the  upper  deck,  bulldog  in  the  foreground. 
By  this  time  the  Second  Officer  has  exhumed  an 
oblong  wooden  case  containing  a  worn  violin.  Ah! 
I  have  his  secret.  He  holds  it  like  a  baby,  and  plucks 
at  the  strings.  Then  he  plays. 


126  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Well,  he  knows,  by  instinct  I  imagine,  that  I  care 
nothing  for  music,  as  music.  So  when  I  ask  for 
hymn-tunes,  he  smiles  soberly  and  complies.  I 
hear  my  favourites  to  my  heart's  content — "Hark, 
Hark,  My  Soul,"  "Weary  of  Earth,"  "Abide  With 
Me,"  and  "Thou  Knowest,  Lord."  How  glad  they 
must  be  who  believe  these  words!  The  red  sun  was 
flooding  the  room  with  his  last  flaming  signal  as  the 
man  played: 

"Abide  with  me;  fast  falls  the  eventide; 
The  darkness  deepens;  Lord  with  me  abide, 
When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  0  abide  with  me  !" 

Yes,  mon  ami,  all  men  know  of  that  tremendous 
loss  inherent  in  all  their  labours.  And  it  is,  I  think, 
to  balance  that  loss  that  they  have  invented  religion. 


XXII 

IT  HAS  suddenly  struck  me  that  there  are  many  im- 
portant things  to  be  found  by  considering  the  cheap 
literature  which  floods  the  English  and  American 
publics  week  by  week  and  month  by  month.  I  am 
afraid  that,  when  at  home  in  Chelsea,  where  even 
the  idlers  read  Swinburne  and  Lord  de  Tabley,  I 
had  grown  accustomed  to  the  stilted  point  of  view, 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  127 

calling  novelettes  "trashy"  and  beneath  an  intel- 
lectual man's  consideration.  Well,  since  this  par- 
ticular trash  forms  the  staple  brain  food  in  the  Mer- 
cantile Marine,  I  must  needs  look  into  it  more  closely. 
With  results. 

There  is  a  question  of  bulk  and  output.  This  is 
appalling  to  a  laborious  writer,  a  student  or  a  thinker. 
Week  by  week  there  pours  forth  an  unending  deluge 
of  love  fiction,  and  week  by  week  this  deluge  is  ab- 
sorbed into  the  systems  of  millions  of  human  beings. 
We  speak  glibly  of  the  world-wide  fame  of  some 
classic,  when,  in  point  of  fact,  the  people  familiar 
with  that  classic  are  isolated  specks  in  the  vast, 
solid  mass  to  whom  some  novelettist  is  a  household 
god.  The  classic  will  have,  say,  one  votary  in  the 
family,  the  novelettist  will  capture  the  family  en  bloc. 
An  engineer  will  receive  a  cargo  of  novelettes,  all  of 
which  have  been  digested,  or  even  feverishly  devoured, 
by  his  mother,  wife,  or  sisters.  He  will  pass  them 
on  to  the  Steward,  who  will  read  them  and  give  them 
to  the  sailors  and  firemen.  And  this  obtains  in 
every  ship  wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken. 
What  classic  can  claim  a  public  that  does  not  seem 
microscopic  compared  to  this? 

I  cannot  but  observe,  too,  that  Miss  Anonyme 
often  writes  exceedingly  well.  No  extraneous  va- 
pourings  are  admitted,  and  the  plot  is  steadily  de- 


128  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

veloped  to  its  inevitable  conclusion  of  "happy  ever 
after."  The  metaphors  are  somewhat  stereotyped, 
and  quotations  from  Tennyson  are  awkwardly 
handled,  but — what  would  you  for  a  penny?  John- 
son's explanation — that  they  write  well  in  order  to 
be  paid  well — is  correct.  Miss  Anonyme  knows 
her  "market,"  and  she  writes  for  it  as  well  as  can 
be  expected  under  the  circumstances. 

A  point  worth  noting  is  that  this  talk  about 
"pernicious  literature"  is  not  sincere.  Literature 
cannot  be  pernicious  in  itself.  At  the  present  time 
people  can  get  exactly  what  they  desire,  because  the 
question  of  price  does  not  arise.  The  finest  works 
are  to  be  had  at  every  free  library,  and  for  a  few 
pence  at  every  book-shop,  and  the  public  carefully 
avoids  them.  Novels  containing  chapter  after  chap- 
ter of  neurotic  aphrodisiacs  and  pornography  mas- 
querading as  literature  are  priced  at  "a  shilling 
net,"  and  are  avidly  purchased  and  read  by  the 
simple,  God-fearing,  sea-faring  man. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  tragic  side  to  this  question. 
I  mean  that,  after  all,  a  sublime  simplicity  of  mind 
is  a  necessary  predicate  to  the  acceptance  of  this 
"cheap"  fiction.  "A  penn'orth  o  loove"  George 
the  Fourth  calls  a  novelette,  and  there's  something 
very  grim  to  me  in  that  phrase  also. 

I   have   already   noted   the   "passionate   love   of 


,4 AT  OCEAN  TRAMP  129 

music'*  in  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  these  stories. 
I  made  notes,  and,  in  ten  consecutive  tales,  one  or 
more  of  the  characters  "was  a  passionate  lover  of 
music."  I  do  not  complain  against  the  genius  whose 
heroine  elopes  with  a  clean-shaven  villain  to  Brittany 
and  is  married  in  a  Gothic  church  with  frescoed 
chapels.  Neither  do  I  any  longer  cry  out  when  I 
read  that  "the  light  that  never  was  lay  over  the 
land."  I  am  grown  callous  with  a  course  of  light 
fiction  such  as  I  have  never  taken  before.  And  I 
hope  I  shall  not  be  misunderstood  and  numbered 
with  the  prigs  when  I  say  that  never  did  literature 
seem  to  me  more  lovely  and  alluring  than  when  I 
had  finished  my  task  and  had  opened  my  "Faust" 
once  more,  feeling  the  magic  of  the  master  beckoning 
"to  far-off  shores  with  smiles  from  other  skies." 

What  we  clearly  comprehend  we  can  clearly  express. 
That,  I  think,  is  Boileau,  though  I  cannot  remember 
where  I  read  it.  The  baffling  thing  about  this  fiction 
is  that  it  expresses  nothing,  and  therefore  is  not 
really  a  part  of  literature.  The  features  of  my  col- 
leagues when  absorbing  a  first-rate  soporific  of  this 
nature  remind  me  of  the  symptoms  of  catalepsy 
enumerated  in  a  treatise  of  forensic  medicine  which 
I  once  read.  The  influence  is  even  physical.  It 
is  generally  associated  with  a  recumbent  position, 
repeated  yawning,  and  excessive  languor.  Loss  of 


130  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

memory,  too,  is  only  one  of  the  consequences  of 
reading  a  dozen  novelettes  in  a  week's  run. 

There  is  another  possibility.  I  must  not  forget 
that  in  one  point  I  found  myself  in  error.  In  the 
case  especially  of  engineers,  this  intellectual  drug- 
taking  has  no  effect  upon  their  interest  in  professional 
literature.  When  George  the  Fourth  goes  up  for  his 
"tickut"  he  will  be  as  keen  about  the  theory  of 
steam  and  the  latest  researches  in  salinometry  as 
any  of  the  aristocratic  young  gentlemen  who  haunt 
the  precincts  of  Great  George  Street  and  Storeys 
Gate.  This  leads  me  to  imagine  that  in  the  future 
there  will  be  a  vast  mass  of  highly  trained  mechani- 
cians to  whom  literature  will  be  non-existent,  but 
whose  acquaintance  with  written  technics  will  be 
enormous.  Like  our  scientific  men,  perhaps.  I  am 
uneasy  at  the  prospect,  because  this  conception  of 
uncultured  omniscience,  the  calm  eyes  of  him  shining 
with  the  pride  of  Government-stamped  knowledge, 
is  inseparable  from  an  utter  lack  of  reverence  for 
women.  Neither  Antony  nor  Pericles,  but  Alcibiades 
is  his  classical  prototype.  And  so  the  fiction  with 
which  he  will  pass  the  time  between  labour  and  sleep 
will  have  none  of  the  subtlety  of  Meredith,  none  of 
the  delicate  artistry  of  Flaubert,  but  rather  the 
fluent  obviousness  of  Guy  Boothby,  stripped  as  bare 
as  possible  of  sex  romance. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  131 

I  am  anxious  to  convince  myself  of  all  this,  be- 
cause I  want  so  much  to  divorce  this  tremendous 
flood  of  machine-made  writing  from  genuine  literary 
activity.  That,  too,  will  evolve  and  evolve  and 
evolve  again;  but  with  such  a  theme  I  am  not  genius 
enough  to  cope. 

XXIII 

I  AM  grown  tired  of  books.  It  is  a  fact  that  pro- 
tracted manual  toil  strikes  a  shrewd  blow  at  one's 
capacity  for  thought,  and  at  times  I  turn  from  the 
fierce  intellectual  life  with  a  weariness  I  never  knew 
in  the  old  days.  How  my  friend  would  smile  at  such 
a  confession.  I,  who  have  thumped  the  supper- 
table  until  three  in  the  morning,  until  our  eyelids 
were  leaden  with  fatigue,  growing  weary  of  the  strife! 
Yet  it  is  sometimes  true. 

After  all,  though,  my  real  study  nowadays  is  on 
deck  and  below,  where  Shakespeare  and  the  musical 
glasses  are  beyond  the  sky-line,  and  one  can  talk  to 
men  who  have  never  in  their  lives  speculated  upon 
life,  have  never  imagined  that  life  could  possibly 
be  arraigned  and  called  in  question,  or  that  morality 
could  ever  be  anything  but  "givin'  the  girl  her  lines, 
like  a  man."  My  friend  the  Mate  is  a  compendium 
of  humanism,  the  Chief  provides  me  with  curious 
researches  in  natural  history.  Even  the  Cook,  with 


i32  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

whom  I  have  been  conversing,  presents  new  phases  of 
life  to  me,  and  brings  me  into  touch  with  the  poor, 
the  ignorant,  and  the  prolific.  The  poor  whom  we 
know  at  home  are  only  poor  in  purse.  These  men 
are  poor  in  everything  save  courage  and  the  power 
to  propagate  their  kind.  The  Cook  has  received  a 
letter  from  his  sister-in-law  to  the  effect  that  he  is 
now  the  father  of  twins,  and  he  looks  at  me  and 
smiles  grimly.  Under  the  pretence  of  obtaining  hot 
water  for  shaving,  I  am  admitted  to  his  sanctum 
sanctorum  abaft  the  funnel,  and  we  talk.  It  is 
hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  Malthusian  doctrine 
receives  cordial  approbation  from  my  friend  the 
Cook,  when  I  have  expounded  it  to  him. 

"Certainly,  Mr.  McAlnwick,"  he  observes,  "but 
'ow  are  you  goin'  to  start?" 

"You  see,"  I  reply,  "it  isn't  a  question  of  starting, 
but  a  question  of  stopping." 

"Well,"  he  says  stolidly,  rolling  a  cigarette,  " 'ow 
are  you  goin'  to  start  stoppin'  ? " 

"You,"  I  answer,  "might  have  dispensed  with 
these  twins." 

"Lord  love  yer,  mister,  I  can  dispense  with  'em 
easy  enough.  That's  not  the  question.  The  ques- 
tion is,  'ow  am  I  to  feed  'em,  now  I've  got  'em? 
An'  'ow  am  I  to  avoid  'em,  me  bein'  a  man,  mind, 
an'  not  a  lump  o'  dry  wood  ? " 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  133 

Like  all  theorists,  I  am  hard  put  for  an  answer.  I 
look  round  me,  and  watch  my  interlocutor  preparing 
to  make  bread.  There  is  a  mammoth  pan  on  the 
bench  beside  me  containing  a  coast-line  of  flour  with 
a  lake  of  water  in  the  middle.  Cook  is  opening  the 
yeast-jar,  an  expression  of  serious  intent  on  his  face. 
Some  cooks  sing  when  they  make  bread;  the  Scotch- 
man I  told  you  of  in  a  previous  letter  invariably 
trilled  "Stop  yer  ticklin',  Jock,"  and  his  bread  was 
invariably  below  par.  But  this  cook  does  not  warble. 
He  only  releases  the  stopper  with  a  crack  like  a 
gun-shot,  flings  the  liquid  "doughshifter"  over  the 
lake  in  a  devastating  shower,  and  commences  to 
knead,  swearing  softly.  Anon  the  exorcism  changes 
to  a  noise  like  that  affected  by  ostlers  as  they  tend 
their  charges,  and  the  lake  has  become  a  parchment- 
coloured  morass.  For  five  pounds  a  month  this  man 
toils  from  four  a.m.  to  eight  p.  m.,  and  his  wife  can 
find  nothing  better  to  do  than  present  him  with 
twins! 

I  look  into  the  glowing  fire  and  think. 

I  feel  this  is  delicate  ground,  even  allowing  for  the 
natural  warmth  of  a  man  who  has  twins,  so  I  am 
silent. 

"Sometimes,"  Cook  continues,  growing  pensive  as 
the  dough  grows  stiff,  "sometimes  I  feel  as  though 
I  could  jump  over  the  side  with  a  '  'ere  goes  nothink' 


134  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

and  a  bit  of  fire-bar  in  me  'ip-pocket.  Same  blasted 
work,  day  after  day.  Monday  curry  an'  rice,  fresh 
meat  an*  two  veg.,  "arriet  lane'  and  spuds.  Toos- 
day,  salt  meat  ditto.  Wednesday,  bully  soup  an' 
pastry.  Thursday,  similar.  Friday,  kill  a  pig  an' 
clean  the  galley.  Sat'day,  "arriet  lane'  an'  spuds, 
fresh  meat,  two  veg.,  an'  tart.  Sunday,  similar 
with  eggs  an'  bacon  aft.  What  good  do  it  do? 
Who's  the  better  for  it  all?  Not  me.  "Ere  goes 
nothink!'" 

He  stabs  the  fire  savagely  through  a  rivet-hole  in 
the  door,  and  pushes  his  cauldrons  about.  To  one 
who  knows  Cook  all  this  is  merely  the  safety-valve 
lifting.  The  ceaseless  grind  tells  on  the  hardest 
soul,  and  you  behold  the  result.  In  an  hour  or  so 
he  will  be  smiling  again,  and  telling  me  how  nearly 
he  married  a  laundryman's  daughter  in  Tooley 
Street,  a  favourite  topic  which  he  tries  to  invest  with 
pathos.  It  appears  that,  after  bidding  the  fair 
blanchis sense  good-night,  he  chanced  one  evening  to 
take  a  walk  up  and  down  Liverpool  Street,  where  he 
fell  into  conversation  with  a  girl  of  prepossessing 
appearance.  Quite  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Ma- 
demoiselle Soap-Suds  had  followed  him,  "just  to  see 
if  he  was  as  simple  as  he  looked,"  he  enjoyed  himself 
immensely  for  some  twenty  minutes,  and  then  ran 
right  into  her.  He  assures  me  he  was  "  'orror-struck." 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  135 

Like  a  man,  he  admitted  that  he  was  conversing 
with  "that — that  there."  I  always  like  this  part 
of  the  tale.  His  confession  seems  to  him  to  have  been 
the  uttermost  depths  of  mortal  self-abnegation. 
Alas,  the  heiress  of  Soap-Suds  Senior  had  no  apprecia- 
tion of  the  queenly  attribute  of  forgiveness.  She 
boxed  his  ears,  and  he  never  saw  her  again.  "She 
was  allus  a  spiteful  cat,"  he  observes  pensively;  "so 
p'raps  the  wash  'us  'ud  ha'  been  dear  at  the  price. 
Still,  it  was  a  nice  little  business,  an'  no  kid." 

As  I  raise  my  pot  of  shaving-water  a  huge  head 
and  shoulders  fill  up  the  upper  half  of  the  galley 
doorway.  The  mighty  Norseman  has  come  for  some 
"crawfish  legs."  Like  Mr.  Peggotty  and  the  crus- 
tacea  he  desires  to  consume,  he  has  gone  into  hot 
water  very  black,  and  emerges  very  red.  His  flannel 
shirt  only  partially  drapes  his  illuminated  chest — I 
see  the  livid  scar  plainly.  He  beams  upon  me,  and 
asks  for  a  match. 

"Well,  Donkey,"  says  Cook,  " 'ow  goes  it?" 
"Donkey"  is  the  mighty  Norseman's  professional 
title  aboard  ship. 

"Aw  reet,  mon,"  says  he  with  the  fiendish  aptitude 
of  his  race  for  idiom.  "How  is  the  Kuck?" 

"Oh,  splendid.  Stand  out  o'  the  way,  and  let  me 
make  thy  daily  bread." 

"Daily!"  screams  the  Donkeyman.     "Tell  that 


136  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

to  the  marines.  I  have  one  loaf  soF  bread  three 
times  a  week,  an'  there  are  seven  days  to  a  week. 
Daily!  Tell  that " 

"Find  another  ship,  me  man,  find  another  ship 
if  the  Benvenuto  don't  suit!"  And  the  Mate  passes 
on  to  the  chart-house,  where  are  many  dogs. 

"Ay,  will  I,  when  we  get  to  Swansea,"  says  the 
Donkeyman  to  me,  beaming.  "There  are  more 
ships  than  parish  churches,  eh?  Mister,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you.  Come  out  here."  I  go  outside  in 
the  moonlight,  and  the  mighty  Norseman  takes  hold 
of  the  second  button  of  my  patrol-jacket. 

"Well,  Donkey?" 

"I  'ave  had  a  letter  from  Marianna,"  he  whispers. 

"Ah!    And  so  she  is " 

"She  is  Marianna,  always  Marianna  now.  A 
good  letter — two  and  a  half  page.  See,  in  German, 
mister.  She  write  it  very  well,  Marianna."  And 
I  behold  a  letter  in  German  script. 

Tastes  differ.  I  am  compelled  to  believe  that 
passion  can  flow  even  through  German  script — aye, 
when  it  is  written  by  a  Swedish  maiden  of  uncertain 
caligraphy.  Heavenly  powers!  I  turn  the  sheet 
to  the  light  from  the  galley.  Surely  no  mortal  can 
decipher  such  a  farrago  of  alphabetical  obscurity. 
And  I  do  so  want  to  know  what  Marianna  says  for 
herself.  I  love  Marianna,  for  the  mighty  Norseman 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  137 

says  she  is  small  and  dainty,  and  her  eyes  are  grey, 
and — and — well,  the  resemblance  doesn't  end  there; 
so  when  I  tell  my  friend,  he  may  laugh  as  much  as 
he  pleases.  But  there  had  been  a  quarrel  (in  German 
script),  and  the  mighty  Norseman  had  grown  might- 
ily misogynistic.  His  jolly  pasty  face  had  been  as 
long  as  my  arm  most  of  the  way  out,  and  his  senti- 
ments, confided  to  me  each  day  at  seven  bells,  were 
discourteous  to  the  sex.  But  now,  behold  the  cloud 
lifted:  German  script  has  undone  its  own  villainy, 
and  Johann  Nicanor  GustafFsen  beams. 

"I  will  go  'ome  this  time,  mister,"  he  says,  folding 
up  the  reconciling  hieroglyphics. 

"How,  Donkey — work  it?" 

"Not  much,  you  bet.  I  go  to  London  and  take 
a  Swedish  boat  from  Royal  Albert  Docks  to  Gothen- 
burg, train  from  Gothenburg  to  Marianna.  Seven- 
teen knots  quadruple  twin  screw.  I  will  be  a  passen- 
ger for  one  quid." 

"Donkey,  did  you  ever  hear  of  Ibsen — Henrik 
Ibsen?" 

"  Ibsen  ?     Noa.     What  ship  is  he  Chief  of,  mister  ?" 

"A  ship  that  passes  in  the  night,  Donkey." 

"What's  that,  mister?" 

How  small  a  thing  is  literary  fame,  after  all! 
When  one  considers  the  density  of  the  human  at^ 
mosphere,  the  darkness  in  which  the  millions  live, 


138  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

is  not  Ibsen  to  them  a  ship  passing  in  the  night  indeed, 
a  mysterious  light  afar  off,  voyaging  they  know 
not  where?  Perhaps  that  is  what  I  meant. 

"He  wrote  plays,  Donkey — Schauspielschreiber, 
you  know." 

"Oa!  Ich  hatte  nicht  daran  gedacht!  'Ave  you 
a  bit  of  paper  and  envelope,  mister,  please  ?  I  will 
write  to  Marianna." 

"Give  her  my  love,  Donkey." 

"Oh-a-yes,  please!  I'll  watch  it!  What?  You 
cut  me  out?"  A  rumbling  laugh  comes  up  from 
that  mighty  chest,  he  beams  upon  me,  and  plunges 
into  the  galley  for  his  crawfish  legs. 

XXIV 

MUG  of  hot  water  in  hand,  I  pick  my  way  aft  among 
the  derrick  chains,  and  descend  to  my  room.  Have  I 
yet  described  it?  Nine  feet  six  by  seven  wide  by 
seven  high.  At  the  for'ard  end  a  bunk  overtopped 
by  two  ports  looking  out  upon  the  main  deck.  At 
the  after  end  a  settee  over  which  is  my  bookcase. 
A  chest  of  drawers,  a  shelf,  a  mirror,  a  framed  photo- 
graph, a  bottle-rack,  and  a  shaving-strop  adorn  the 
starboard  bulkhead.  A  door,  placed  midway  in  the 
opposite  side,  is  hung  with  many  clothes.  A  cur- 
tain screens  my  slumbers,  and  a  ventilator  in  the 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  139 

ceiling  chills  my  toes  when  turned  to  the  wind. 
Ceiling  and  walls  are  painted  dead  white,  with  red 
wainscotting  round  the  settee.  Two  engravings  grace 
the  only  vacant  spots  on  my  walls — one  a  wild  piece 
of  wood  and  moorland,  the  road  shining  white  after 
a  late-autumn  rain,  with  a  gypsy  van  showing  sharp 
against  the  lowering  sky;  the  other  a  wintry  lane  with 
a  waggon  labouring  in  the  snow.  A  patrol-jacket 
and  a  uniform  cap  hang  over  a  pillow-case  half  full 
of  dirty  clothes.  Such  is  my  home  at  sea. 

Look  round  while  I  shave.  Quite  possibly  some 
may  wonder  that  I  should  affect  such  commonplace 
pictures.  They  cost  me  threepence  each,  in  Swansea. 
Well,  I  am  not  concerned  with  their  merit  as  pieces 
of  decorative  art.  When  I  look  at  that  wet  road  and 
rainy  sky,  I  go  back  in  thought  to  the  days  when  I 
lived  near  Barnet,  and  the  world  was  mine  on  Sun- 
day. I  recall  how  I  was  wont  to  throw  off  my  morn- 
ing lethargy,  get  astride  my  bicycle,  a  pipe  in  one 
pocket  and  a  book  in  the  other,  and  plunge  into  the 
open  country  beyond  Hadley  Heath.  It  had  rained, 
very  likely,  in  the  morning,  and  the  roads  were  clean 
and  fresh,  and  the  trees  were  sweet  after  their  bath. 
And  as  the  afternoon  closed  in  I  would  sit  on  a  gate 
in  some  unfrequented  lane  and  watch  the  red  fog 
darken  over  London  town.  I  was  happy  then,  as 
few  lads  are,  I  think.  Those  long  silences,  those 


i4o  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

solitary  communings,  were  mind-building  all  the 
time.  So,  when  I  came  away  from  home  and  settled 
in  Chelsea,  and  heard  men  talk,  I  felt  that  I,  too, 
had  something  to  say. 

In  like  manner  my  snowscape  takes  me  back  to 
the  time  when  I  was  a  mechanic,  engine-building 
near  Aylesbury.  We  lived  half  a  mile  from  the  works, 
at  an  old  inn,  and  we  began  at  six  o'clock.  In  winter 
time,  I  remember,  we  would  snuggle  into  the  big 
back  kitchen,  with  its  huge  cauldron  of  pig-meat 
swinging  over  the  open  fire,  and  its  barrels  containing 
evil  things  like  stoats  and  ferrets,  to  put  on  our 
boots;  and  when  we  opened  the  door,  two  feet  of 
snow  would  fall  in  upon  the  floor.  How  well  I 
remember  that  silent  trudge  up  the  bleak  Birming- 
ham Road  to  the  works!  There  were  always  two 
broad  ruts  in  the  white  roadway — the  mail-coach 
had  passed  silently,  at  two  o'clock.  Cold,  cold, 
cold!  A  white  silence,  save  for  our  dark  figures 
shuffling  softly  through  the  snow.  And  then  a  long 
eleven-hour  day. 

XXV 

I  HAVE  occasionally  mentioned  my  friend  the  Second. 
A  keen,  dark-skinned,  clean-shaven  face,  with  small 
blue  eyes  and  regular  white  teeth.  There  are  no 
flies  on  him.  His  is  one  of  those  minds  which  can 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  141 

grasp  every  detail  of  a  profession  and  yet  remain 
very  ignorant  indeed,  a  mind  which  travel  has  made 
broader — and  shallower.  He  is  a  clever,  courteous, 
skilful,  well-bred,  narrow-minded  Broad-Churchman. 
He  is  a  total  abstainer,  a  non-smoker,  and  a  fre- 
quenter of  houses  of  fair  reception.  If  anomaly  can 
go  further,  I  can  declare  to  you  that  he  is  engaged 
to  a  clergyman's  daughter.  When  he  is  angered, 
his  face  grows  as  thin  as  a  razor,  the  small  blue  eyes 
diminish  to  glittering  points,  and  the  small  white 
teeth  close  like  a  vise.  It  is  then  that  I  am  sorry 
for  the  clergyman's  daughter.  We  do  not  under- 
stand each  other,  I  fear,  because  I  am  so  unsenti- 
mental. He  believes  in  unpractical  things  like 
Money,  Success,  Empire,  Home  Life,  Football,  and 
Wales  for  ever.  How  can  a  man  who  puts  faith  in 
such  visionary  matters  understand  one  who  builds 
on  the  eternal  and  immovable  bedrock  of  literature 
and  art?  He  has  sober  dreams  of  following  in  his 
father's  steps  and  making  a  fortune  for  himself,  and 
he  considers  me  weak  in  the  head  when  I  explain 
that  I  have  made  my  wealth  and  am  now  enjoying 
it.  Would  he  ever  understand,  I  wonder? 

"  Yes,  there  are  some  from  whom  our  Lady  flies, 

Whose  dull,  dead  souls,  rise  not  at  her  command, 
And  who,  in  blindness,  press  back  from  their  eyes 
'  The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land'  " 


142  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

In  fact,  I  should  say  he  is  one  of  those  same 
mechanicians  of  whom  I  spoke,  in  whose  lives  litera- 
ture will  have  no  place,  and  the  desire  for  a  private 
harem  supplant  the  grande  passion.  This  may 
sound  absurd  when  one  remembers  their  love  of 
home;  but  I  speak  with  knowledge.  It  is  easy 
enough  to  make  a  man  out  to  be  a  patriot,  or  a 
humanitarian,  or  a  home-lover,  if  you  pick  and  choose 
from  his  complicated  mentality  just  what  suits  that 
particular  label.  To  know  a  man  as  he  is,  you  must 
be  shipmates  with  him,  quarrel  with  him,  mess 
with  him  week  after  week  until  you  are  sick  of  the 
sight  of  him.  Then,  if  you  are  sufficiently  sensitive 
to  personality,  you  will  divine  his  spiritual  bedrock 
beneath  all  the  superimposed  recencies,  and  you  will 
know  whether  he  be  "a  mere  phosphatous  prop  of 
flesh  "  or  whether  he  have  in  him  some  genuine  metal- 
lic rock,  from  which  the  fabric  of  the  distant  world- 
state  may  be  fashioned. 

XXVI 

ONCE  more  I  am  writing  "homeward  bound." 
Homeward  bound!  Outside  the  Channel  fog  is 
coming  down  to  enfold  us,  the  wind  is  cold,  my  stock 
of  fruit,  laid  in  at  Las  Palmas  is  done,  and  George 
the  Fourth  is  growling  through  the  ventilator, 
"T'  Longships,  mister!" 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  143 

Longships — that's  twelve  hours'  run  from  the 
Mumble  Head,  the  great  white  lenticular  lenses  of 
which  fling  wide-sweeping  spokes  of  light  across 
the  tumbling  waters  of  the  Channel.  The  Skipper 
is  cautious,  has  been  twenty-two  hours  on  bridge 
and  in  chart-room;  refuses  to  go  ahead  until  he 
can  locate  Lundy.  We  heard,  in  Grand  Canary, 
that  the  big  White  Star  Satanic  is  lying  near  the 
Lizard,  back  broken,  total  loss,  heroic  passengers 
all  safely  landed.  Wonderful  people,  passengers. 
If  they  keep  hysteria  at  a  distance  for  a  few  hours, 
they  are  bravoed  from  one  end  of  the  Empire  to  the 
other.  The  Satanic's  engineers?  The  Empire  has 
overlooked  them,  I  suppose,  which  is  their  own  pe- 
culiar glory. 

Homeward  bound!  "Finishing,"  too,  for  three 
of  us.  Chief,  Second,  and  Fourth  are  leaving  when 
we  get  in,  and  I  shall  be  alone  for  a  few  days.  That 
means  work,  I  fear,  and  no  joyful  run  up  to  Padding- 
ton  this  time.  Well,  well,  next  time  /  finish,  and 
we  shall  foregather  in  the  Walk  once  more.  I  was 
thinking,  only  a  day  or  two  back,  that  Chelsea  Em- 
bankment must  be  in  its  glory  now,  glory  of  early 
spring.  That  noble  line  of  granite  coping  and 
twinkling  lights.  How  often  have  we  walked  down 
past  the  Barracks  from  Knightsbridge,  taken  pot- 
luck  at  the  coffee-stall  at  the  corner,  and  then 


144  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

fared  homeward  between  the  river  and  the  trees! 
Ah,  me!  To  do  it  once  again — that  is  what  I  long 
for. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  Longships  are  away  astern, 
the  Skipper  has  found  Lundy,  a  grey  hump  on  the 
port  bow  in  the  morning  light,  and  we  are  "full 
ahead"  for  the  Mumbles.  Sailors'  bags  are  drying 
on  the  cylinder-tops,  Chief,  Second,  and  Fourth  are 
fixing  up  a  "blow-out"  up  town  to-morrow  night; 
mess-room  steward  is  polishing  the  brasswork  till 
it  shines  like  gold;  and  I  am  writing  to  my  very  good 
friend.  We  are  all  very  cheerful,  too;  no  "sailors' 
gloom"  in  our  faces  as  we  go  on  watch.  George 
the  Fourth  (I  cannot  imagine  what  the  ship  will  be 
like  without  him)  is  making  himself  ridiculous  by 
doing  everything  for  "t'  last  time."  "T'  last  time!" 
he  mutters  as  he  starts  the  evaporator  and  adjusts 
the  vapour-cock.  He  is  taking  the  temperatures  for 
the  last  time.  He  is  going  up  to  South  Shields  for 
his  "tickut,"  by  which  he  means  a  first-class  cer- 
tificate of  competency  issued  by  the  Board  of  Trade. 
That  is  George  the  Fourth's  utmost  ambition.  He 
is  a  man  then;  he  is  licensed  to  take  any  steamer  of 
any  tonnage  into  any  sea  on  the  chart.  He  has, 
moreover,  a  certain  prestige,  has  this  skylarky 
youth,  when  he  gets  his  "chief's  tickut."  Ladies 
who  preside  over  saloon  bars  will  try  to  lure  him  into 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  145 

matrimony.     He  will  grow  (I  hope)  a  little  steadier, 
and  fall  really  and  truly  in  love. 

My  colleague  the  Second,  he  intends  to  work  ashore 
and  sleep  at  home.  The  clergyman's  daughter,  I 
imagine,  will  come  more  and  more  into  the  scheme 
of  things,  and  the  mother  he  loves  so  well  will  give 
him  her  blessing.  So  each,  you  see,  has  a  clearly 
defined  plan,  while  I  drift  along,  planless,  ambition- 
less,  smoking  many  pipes.  I  have  been  trying  to 
think  out  something  practicable.  Am  I  to  drift 
always  about  the  world,  a  mere  piece  of  flotsam  on 
Swansea  tide?  Or  am  I  to  sit  down  once  more  in 
Chelsea,  hand  and  brain  running  to  seed,  while  the 
world  spins  on  outside?  I  must  think  out  a  plan. 
And  I  must  school  myself  to  cancel  all  plans  begin- 
ning "If  she  will — if  only."  Why  cannot  I  rise  to 
some  decent  sense  of  self-respect,  to  say,  as  says  the 
man  in  "The  Last  Ride  Together": 

"  Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same." 

That's  manly — pre-eminently  English,  in  fact. 
But,  meanwhile,  I  drift  planless. 

The  mighty  Norseman,  too,  in  his  own  sinewy 
Hyperborean  style,  is  full  of  joy.  His  jolly  pasty 
face  beams  joyously  upon  me.  He  will  be  "a  passen- 
ger for  one  quid"  from  London  to  Gothenburg, 


146  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

thence  to  Stockholm,  and  Marianna.  The  engine- 
room  is  bulging,  in  places,  with  the  contraband  goods 
he  is  bringing  home  for  Marianna.  Pieces  of  silk 
"for  the  Signorina,"  as  the  handsome  old  huxter- 
lady  at  Canary  purrs  in  our  ears;  bottles  of  Florida 
water,  mule  canaries,  and  Herrick's  own  divine 
Canary  Sack,  to  which  he  so  often  bade  "farewell." 
All  these  for  the  dainty  maiden  who  indulges  in 
German  Script.  God  speed  you,  oh,  mighty  Norse- 
man! May  your  frescoed  bosom  never  prove  un- 
faithful to  your  grey-eyed  maiden.  I,  at  least,  have 
been  the  better  for  having  known  you — a  ship  pass- 
ing in  the  night. 

And  so  we  come  to  the  Mumble  Head. 

XXVII 

PAID  off,  free  for  the  afternoon,  with  overcoat 
buttoned  up  and  collar  about  my  ears,  I  stroll  aim- 
lessly through  the  town.  It  has  often  been  my  am- 
bition to  emulate  those  correct  creatures  who,  when 
they  come  to  a  place,  study  maps,  read  guide-books, 
and  "do"  the  sights  one  by  one.  But,  so  far,  I  am 
a  dead  failure.  Even  my  own  dear  London  is  known 
to  me  by  long-continued  pedestrianism.  When  I 
reach  a  town  I  put  up  by  chance,  I  see  things  by 
chance,  leave  on  an  impulse,  and  carry  away  precious 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  147 

glimpses  of  nothing  in  particular  that  I  can  piece 
together  at  leisure  into  a  sort  of  mnemonic  mosaic. 
Well,  so  I  stroll  through  Swansea,  trying  to  forget 
the  only  two  facts  which  I  know  concerning  it — that 
Beau  Nash  was  born  here  and  Savage  died  here. 
They  are  like  bits  of  grit  in  the  oyster  of  my  content. 
I  will  turn  aside  and  see  life. 

I  enter  one  of  my  favourite  taverns.  I  am  sur- 
rounded by  maidens,  bar-maidens,  and  a  fat  land- 
lady. Amy,  Baby,  Starlight,  Chubby — all  are  here, 
clamorous  for  the  baubles  I  had  promised  them  four 
months  before.  My  friend  would  be  shocked  at 
their  familiarity;  I  admit,  from  a  certain  point  of 
view,  it  is  scandalous.  But,  then,  all  things  are  still 
forgiven  to  sailors.  And  so,  business  being  slack, 
I  am  dragged  into  the  bar-parlour  and  commanded 
to  disgorge.  I  produce  bottles  of  perfume,  little 
buckhorns,  ostrich  feathers,  flamingo  wings,  and 
bits  of  silk.  The  big  pocket  of  my  overcoat  is  dis- 
charged of  its  cargo.  I  am  suffocated  with  salutes 
of  the  boisterous,  tom-boy  kind,  and  am  commanded 
to  name  my  poison. 

As  a  reward,  Chubby  promises  to  go  with  me  to 
that  iridescent  music-hall  up  the  street.  Chubby's 
appearance  is  deceptive.  She  is  diminutive,  with 
a  Kenwigs  tail  of  plaited  hair  down  her  straight  little 
back.  But  she  is  almost  twenty;  she  is  amazingly 


i48  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

swift  behind  the  bar,  and  no  man  has  yet  bilked  her 
of  a  penny.  There  is  a  Spartan  courage  about  the 
small  maiden,  too,  which  I  cannot  but  admire.  Her 
parents  are  dead;  her  sisters  both  died  the  same  week 
a  year  ago;  she  must  earn  her  living;  but — "No  use 
mopin',  is  it?"  she  inquires  as  she  fingers  a  locket 
containing  photographs  which  hangs  around  her  neck. 
That  is  her  philosophy,  couched  in  language  that  re- 
sembles herself.  I  should  be  only  too  delighted  to 
take  her.  But — there  is  my  incorrigible  habit  of 
reading  a  book  or  lapsing  into  intellectual  oblivion 
while  at  the  play.  How  many  comedies  have  I 
"seen"  without  hearing  a  single  word!  So,  when 
I  go  to  the  iridescent  music-hall,  something  in  the 
programme,  or  the  audience,  will  set  me  musing, 
and  Chubby  will  be  neglected.  I  think  I  shall  buy 
two  tickets,  and  let  Chubby  take  someone  else- 
George  the  Fourth,  say! 

And  Baby,  fingering  the  silk  I  have  brought  her — 
Baby  personifies  for  me  that  terrible  problem  which 
women  and  men  treat  so  callously.  Baby  has  al- 
ready passed  several  milestones  on  the  road  to  Alsatia 
and  we  shall  meet  her  some  day,  somewhere  between 
Hyde  Park  Corner  and  Wardour  Street. 

But  that  is  far  away  yet.  The  glamour  of  the 
thing,  its  risk,  its  pleasantness,  are  over  her  as  yet. 
Officers  of  the  Mercantile  Marine  are  not  squeamish 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  149 

in  a  home  port,  nor  are  they  scarce.  Baby's  rings 
are  worth  good  money.  The  sordid  bickerings  of  the 
trade  are  in  the  future,  the  callous  calculations,  the 
indispensable  whiskey. 

Now,  while  Baby  is  bending  the  violet  eyes  of  her 
upon  a  piece  of  Moorish  silk,  let  me  clear  my  mind 
of  humbug.  I  am  no  sentimentalist  in  this  matter. 
I  am  not  certain,  yet,  that  "my  lady"  of  to-day  is 
the  sole  repository  of  every  virtue;  neither  am  I  dog- 
matic about  "necessary  vice,"  the  "irreducible 
minimum,"  and  such-like  large  viewpoints.  I  have, 
indeed,  nursed  a  theory  that  our  floating  population 
might  be  induced  to  receive  a  certain  percentage  of 
these  adjuncts  to  civilisation,  one  or  two  on  each 
ship,  say,  with  results  satisfactory  to  all  concerned. 
Everyone  knows  that,  in  towns,  the  demand  is 
grotesquely  disproportionate  to  the  supply.  The 
Board  of  Trade  could  deal  with  the  question  of 
certificates  of  competency. 

As  I  sit  in  this  bar-parlour,  it  seems  to  me  that  an 
inextinguishable  howl  of  horror  is  rising  from  the 
people  of  England.  And  as  I  desire  to  be  honest,  I 
admit  that  I  am  overawed  by  that  same  tumult — a 
sort  of  singing  in  my  ears — and  so  leave  the  problem 
to  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells,  or  someone  else  who  deals  ha- 
bitually in  social  seismics. 

After   all,   descriptions   of  seaport   barmaids   can 


ISO  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

scarcely  be  interesting  to  my  friend.  If  she  lose  no 
time  in  providing  him  with  hot  rum  and  water 
(not  ungenerous  with  the  sugar),  she  can  rival  either 
Pompadour  or  La  Pelletier — he  cares  not  which. 
Which  is  the  callous  regard  of  the  whole  business 
to  which  I  have  referred. 

Once  more  adrift,  I  wend  my  way  dockwards, 
pause  at  the  Seamen's  Mission,  hesitate,  and  am 
lost.  I  enter  a  workhouse-like  room,  and  a  colour- 
less man  nods  good-afternoon.  Conveniences  for 
"writing  home,"  newspapers,  magazines,  flamboyant 
almanacks  of  the  Christian  Herald  type,  Pears'  Soap 
art,  and  "  Vessels  entered  inwards."  For  the  asking 
I  may  have  back  numbers  of  the  Christian  Herald. 
Mrs.  Henry  Wood's  story-books  are  obtainable 
by  the  cubic  foot.  As  the  colourless  man  opens  his 
mouth  to  address  me,  I  shudder  and  back  out. 
Give  me  vice,  give  me  boredom,  give  me  anything 
in  the  world  but  this  "practical  religion"  and  smug 
futility  of  ignoble  minds. 

I  fear  my  philosophy  has  broken  away  and  I  am 
misanthropic.  Possibly  because  I  shall  not  see  my 
friend  this  home-coming.  Moreover,  I  am  due  on 
the  ship  even  now,  for  the  others  are  going  off  to  their 
triumphal  "finish"  up  town.  Faring  back,  then,  I 
come  to  the  dock-head  at  sunset,  and  it  is  my  hour. 
Darkness  is  rushing  down  upon  the  shipping  as  I 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  151 

watch.  In  the  distance  hill  piled  on  hill,  blue  dome 
upon  blue  dome,  spangled  with  myriad  firefly  lights, 
backed  by  the  smoky  red  of  winter  sunset;  and  here 
the  shipping,  ghostly  now  in  the  darkness,  exquisitely 
beautiful  in  the  silence.  From  out  at  sea  comes  a 
faint  " ah-oo-oo-oo" — one  more  toiler  coming  in  to 
rest.  And  it  is  night. 

XXVIII 

MY  FRIEND  the  Chief  Officer  is  putting  fresh  clothes 
on  his  bed.  Clean  sheets  and  blankets  and  a  snowy 
counterpane  ("All  sorts  o'  people  come  in  to  have  a 
chat,  Mr.  McAlnwick")  are  arranged  with  due  care. 
He  is  brisk  to-night,  is  my  good  friend,  having  no 
log  to  modify  this  time,  and  nothing  else  on  hand  for 
a  day  or  two.  Photos  dusted,  ports  opened,  tobacco 
and  whiskey  duly  placed  between  us,  he  climbs  into 
his  nest  and  proceeds  to  converse.  A  sort  of 
"  Tabagie"  or  tobacco  parliament,  such  as  was  once 
in  force  at  Potsdam. 

"Sure,"  he  snorts,  "'twas  blackmail  the  baggage 
was  after,  ye  can  take  it  from  me,  and — keep  the 
door  open  when  she's  sorting  the  things." 

Being  a  young  man,  I  wait,  seated  sedately  on  the 
settee,  to  hear  more  concerning  "the  baggage," 
who  is,  let  me  explain,  an  itinerant  blanchisseuse  des 


152  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

equipages  of  equivocal  repute.     The  Mate   reaches 
for  his  pipe. 

"Would  ye  believe  it,  Mr.  McAlnwick?  She  comes 
in  here,  while  I'm  lying  in  me  bunk,  closes  the  door, 
and  comes  up  to  me.  Says  she,  'Oh,  Mr.  Mate,  I'm 
very  unhappy!'  and  puts  her  arms  round  me  neck, 
in  spite — in  spite  of  all  I  could  do,  and  falls  to 


screamm 
« « 


Slack  back,'  says  I,  'or  ye'll  be  the  most  un- 
happy woman  in  this  town.'  An'  then  Nicholas 
he  puts  his  head  in." 

"The  Steward!"  I  ejaculate. 

"The  same.  Ye  see,  mister,  the  baggage,  she 
thought  the  Old  Man  was  aboard,  and — she 
was  goin'  to  make  out  a  case!  Says  Nicholas, 
'Oh,  my  words!  I'll  fetch  police!'  An'  away  he 
cuts." 

"How  embarrassing!" 

The  blue  eyes  of  my  friend  the  Mate  are  twinkling, 
his  face  is  screwed  up,  and  his  nose  is  wrinkled  all  the 
way  up.  He  is  more  like  my  old  Headmaster  than 
ever. 

"  'Twas  so,  Mr.  McAlnwick — 'twas  so.  Ye  see, 
my  besettin'  sin  is  sympathy.  I  feel  sorry  for  the 
baggage.  She  has  a  har-rd  time  of  it,  and  the  ends 
don't  meet — won't  meet,  nohow.  But,  as  I  said, 
'Consider  the  situation,  Mrs.  Ambree.'  'Oh,  Mr. 


,4 AT  OCEAN  TRAMP  153 

Mate,'  says  she,  'will  he  fetch  the  police  ? '  '  Possibly,' 
says  I,  'if  he  finds  one  on  the  quay/  And  she  began 
cryin'  fit  to  break  me  heart." 

To  my  surprise,  the  nose  is  still  wrinkled;  he 
breathes  through  his  nose  in  a  way  that  means  "Ye 
don't  know  what's  comin'." 

"'Oh,  I  hope  he  won't  be  so  cruel,  Mr.  Mate,'  says 
she,  cryin'  as  I  said.  'For  why?'  says  I,  speakin' 
stern.  'You  are  an  immoral  wumman,  Mrs.  Am- 
bree.'  'Yes,'  says  she,  'I  know  that,  Mr.  Mate,  I 
know  that;  but  it  would  be  har-rd  on  me  if  he  was  to 
fetch  Jim  aboard  for  me.'  'Jim?'  says  I.  'Who 
in  thunder's  Jim,  Mrs.  Ambree?'  '  'Tis  my  hus- 
band,' she  sobs.  'He's  on  night  duty  in  this  dock, 
an'  I'm  a  ruined  soul  if  he  finds  out.'  And  she  set 
down  there,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  just  where  you're  settin' 
and  burst  into  floods  o'  tears." 

"Dear  me!"  I  observe.  And  the  nose  is  one  mass 
of  humoursome  corrugations. 

"Aye,  'tis  so,"  continues  the  Chief  Officer,  pour- 
ing out  "Black  and  White"  for  two.  "An'  at 
that  moment  in  comes  Nicholas,  his  face  serious- 
like,  and  says  he,  'Mrs.  Ambree,  ye're  wanted.' 
An'  she  goes  out  wi'  him,  like  Mary  Queen  o'  Scots 
to  the  block!" 

"Mr.  Honna,  I'm  surprised!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  McAlnwick,  not  a  bit  of  it!    At 


1 54  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

first  I  thought  Nicholas  had  been  a  fool  and  fetched 
a  policeman,  but  Nicholas  is  no  fool,  as  yeVe  no 
doubt  observed.  Still,  I  got  out  an'  put  on  me  pants 
and  went  into  the  cabin.  Passin'  the  Steward's 
door  I  heard  voices.  Enterin'  the  Steward's 
room,  I  saw  him  an*  the  baggage  splittin'  a  Guin- 
ness and  carryin'  on!  'Twas  scandalous,  Mr. 
McAlnwick.  To  be  done  by  a  wire-haired,  leather- 
skinned  old  reprobate  like  Nicholas.  'Twas  a 
clear  case,  for  his  wife  does  all  his  washin'  up  at 
Bridgend." 

"I  am  shocked,  Mr.  Honna." 

"Ye  may  well  be.  I  was  too.  Pass  the  water- 
bottle,  Mr.  McAlnwick." 

"I  hear,"  I  observe,  "I  hear  Alexander  the 
Great  is  to  have  the  Petruchio  next  time  she  comes 
in." 

"That's  the  rumour,  Mr.  McAlnwick.  /  think 
there's  something  in  it,  for  me  wife  tells  me  that  Mrs. 
Alexander  was  lookin'  at  a  house  in  Cathay  only  last 
week.  *A  house,'  says  she,  'that  will  be  not  less 
than  thirty  pounds  a  year.'  That  means  Petruchio, 
a  big  ship." 

The  above  personage,  you  see,  is  the  Chief,  the 
man  who  wore  elevators  in  his  boots. 

"  But  why  should  he  move  into  a  larger  house,  Mr. 
Honna?" 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  155 

"To  keep  up  his  position  in  the  world,  Mr.  Mc- 
Alnwick.  'Tis  a  big  responsibility,  ye  see.  His 
youngster  will  now  go  to  a — a  scholastic  academy 
while  mine  remain  on  the  rates." 

"How  are  they,  Mr.  Honna?" 

"Fine,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  fine!  Jacko  passed  I 
don't  know  how  many  exams.,  and  he's  teaching  the 
curate  to  play  the  organ.  Hallo!" 

There  is  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  I  rise  to  lift  the 
hook  which  holds  it.  A  stout  man  with  a  short 
moustache  and  a  double  chin — Tenniel's  Bismarck  to 
the  life — touches  his  cap.  It  is  the  night  watch- 
man. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,  Mr.  Honna,  but  I  don't  feel  well, 
sir,  and  I  wanted  to  know,  sir,  if  you'd  mind  my 
goin'  to  get  a  drop  o'  brandy,  sir?" 

"Away  ye  go,  then." 

"Thank  you,  sir.     Shan't  be  long,  sir.     Only " 

"Have  ye  any  money?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir.     Thank  you  all  the  same,  sir." 

I  close  the  door,  Bismarck  hastens  away  for  brandy, 
and  the  Mate's  nose  is  covered  with  wrinkles. 
Whereby  I  am  at  liberty  to  conclude  that  there  is 
bunkum  in  the  air.  I  cough. 

"See  that  man?"  he  says.     I  nod. 

"Skipper  of  a  three-masted  bark  once." 

"Yes?" 


156  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

"He  was!" 

"What  brought  him  down  to  night  watchman  at 
thirty  shillings  a  week?" 

"Bad  health.  He  was  always  feelin'  unwell, 
and  he  was  tradin'  between  Liverpool  and  Bor- 
deaux." 

The  Mate  nods  at  me  to  emphasise  his  words,  while 
I  look  at  him  gravely. 

"An'  now,"  adds  my  friend  the  Mate,  "I  must  turn 
out  and  see  he  comes  back." 

"I'll  do  that — don't  bother.  So  he's  one  of  the 
derelicts?" 

"His  brother  was  another.  Died  mad,  over  at 
Landore.  Ever  hear  of  Mad  Robin?  Well,  he  was 
Chief  of  a  boat  carryin'  cotton  to  Liverpool.  Comin' 
home  from  Savannah,  dropped  her  propeller  in  mid- 
ocean." 

"Shipped  his  spare  one?"  Mr.  Honna  laughs 
shortly. 

"Didn't  carry  spares  in  that  company,  Mr. 
McAlnwick.  No,  he  made  one." 

"Made  one!     How?" 

"Out  of  a  block  of  hornbeam  and  the  plates  of 
one  of  his  bulkheads.  Knocked  about  for  a  month 
waitin'  for  fine  weather,  tipped  the  ship,  fixed  his 
tin-pot  screw  on,  and  started  'slow  ahead.'  Came 
in  under  her  own  steam,  Second  Engineer  in  com- 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  157 

mand,  Chief  under  restraint  in  his  berth.  Died 
over  at  Landore — D.T." 

With  which  abrupt  epitaph  the  Mate  reaches  for 
his  pants,  while  I,  knocking  out  my  pipe,  go  away  to 
turn  in. 

XXIX 

BUT  I  cannot  sleep.  Something  lies  at  the  back  of 
my  brain — a  dull  anxiety,  hardly  definable  to  myself. 
It  is  possible  that  I  may  see  her  again,  when  I  come 
home  once  more.  I  shall  know  for  certain  in  the 
morning.  And  yet  it  rnay  so  happen  that  it  is  in- 
deed finished.  Nay,  nay,  my  friend,  have  patience. 
I  can  see  you  as  you  read  this,  storming  about  the 
room,  dropping  red  cigarette  ash  on  the,  carpet, 
visibly  perturbed  in  your  mind  at  my  madness. 

Yes,  yes,  I  know  I  forswore  it  all  in  a  moment  of 
bitter  cynicism.  But,  mon  ami,  I  am  a  man — a  very 
irregularly  balanced  man,  too,  I  often  think — and 
there  rises  from  my  soul  an  exceeding  bitter  cry 
sometimes.  You  see  here  my  life — barmaid  society, 
ship's  tittle-tattle,  unending  rough  toil.  To  have 
but  one  hold,  one  haven,  one  star  to  guide — canst 
blame  me,  mon  ami,  if  I  hold  desperately  to  a  tiny 
hope? 

Thinking  this  out,  I  walk  far  out  to  the  pier-head, 
beneath  the  harbour  light,  and  look  earnestly  into 


158  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

the  darkness  covering  the  sea.     Have  pity,  at  least, 
old  friend,  when  I  write  in  pain. 

"Worth  how  well,  those  dark  grey  eyes, 
That  hair  so  dark  and  dear,  how  worth, 

That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonise, 
And  taste  a  very  hell  on  earth 

For  the  hope  of  such  a  -prize!" 

To  which  your  much-tried  patience  replies  merely, 
"Humph!"  I  suppose?  But,  old  friend,  is  it  not 
true  ?  Have  I  not  heard  your  own  voice  give  way  a 
little,  your  own  hand  falter  with  the  eternal  cigarette 
as  some  long-hidden  memory  swept  across  your 
mind?  So  I  believe,  and  so  I  understand  the  terse 
silence  when  you  rise  abruptly  from  the  piano  in  the 
middle  of  some  sad,  low  improvisation,  and  I  lose 
you  in  the  smoke-laden  darkness  of  the  room.  Life 
for  us  moderns  has  its  difficulties  at  times,  life 
being,  as  it  were,  anything  but  modern.  We  have 
so  many  gods,  not  all  of  them  false,  either;  but  the 
Voice  of  the  Dweller  in  the  Innermost  brings  their 
temples  crashing  about  our  ears,  and  we  are  home- 
less, godless,  atheists  indeed. 

I  do  not  think  this  problem  has  been  solved  for  us 
yet.  It  is  all  very  well  for  the  orthodox  to  say  sneer- 
ingly,  "Why  not  believe,  like  us?  Why  stand  out- 
side the  pearly  gates,  while  Love  and  Lovers  pace 
beneath  the  trees  that  grow  by  the  River  of  Life? 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  159 

So  easy,  mes  amis!  Only  believe.  Do  not  delay,  but 
come.  Why  not  to-night?"  We  are  further  from 
yon  purple-crowned  heights  than  you  wot  of,  good 
friends.  Between  us  and  that  golden  radiance  lie 
many  miles  of  dusty  road,  lies  even  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow,  through  which  we  have  passed.  And  now, 
as  we  are  emerging  from  that  same  Valley,  out  upon 
the  broad  high  tablelands  of  Understanding,  we 
turn  and  see  the  distant  loveliness,  and  we  halt  and 
stumble,  and  (sometimes)  lose  our  way. 

"She  should  never  have  looked  on  me. 

If  she  meant  I  should  not  love  her  / 
There  are  plenty — men,  you  call  such, 

I  suppose — she  may  discover 
All  her  soul  to,  if  she  pleases, 

And  yet  leave  much  as  she  found  them: 
But  I'm  not  so,  and  she  knew  it 

When  she  fixed  me,  glancing  round  them." 

XXX 

CHAINS  rattling,  winches  groaning,  sun  shining,  long- 
shoremen shouting,  breezes  blowing. 

"God's  in  His  heaven — 
All's  right  with  the  world." 

And   the   dock   postman    (dear   old    Postie,   who 
cadges  sticks  of  hard  tobacco  and  cigars  from  us 


160  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

when  he  brings  good  news)  is  standing  on  the  quay 
while  the  ship  is  being  moved  into  her  new  berth, 
and  he  waves  a  batch  of  letters  when  he  sees  me  look- 
ing towards  him.  So!  I  have  been  burrowing  in 
our  boilers,  testing  the  scale,  inspecting  stays  and 
furnace  crowns,  and  the  joy  of  working  has  come  back 
to  me.  I  was  solemn  last  evening,  melancholic  and 
somewhat  metaphysical  it  seems;  but  let  it  stand. 
'Tis  morning,  and  Postie's  on  the  quay. 

I  breakfast  alone.  The  others  are  ashore,  but 
they  will  appear  during  the  day  to  finish  up  and 
to  bestow  mementoes  on  the  wretched  one  they 
leave  behind.  And  so  I  sit  smoking  my  pipe  by  the 
mess-room  fire;  Postie  descends,  beaming  expect- 
antly. He  hands  me  two  letters,  one  from  my 
friend,  one  from 

There  was  a  thick  mist  before  my  eyes,  the  fire 
seemed  an  infinitely  distant  red  blur,  and  Postie, 
several  continents  away,  was  burbling  about  possible 
promotions,  good  voyage,  fine  weather,  tobacco,  and 
the  like.  Forgive  me,  old  man,  but  your  letter  lay 
unopened  for  a  while.  I  poured  tobacco  and  cigars 
into  Postie's  pockets,  and  sat  down  to  think  things 
out.  Was  it  foolish  of  me  to  sit  down  to  think? 
To  set  down  the  problem  thus:  Here  am  I,  a  man  of 
infinite,  almost  unknowable  latent  possibilities,  sud- 
denly repossessed  of  the  supreme  power  and  glory 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  161 

of  life.  How  can  I,  by  taking  thought,  bring  out 
those  same  possibilities,  make  them  actual  and 
patent  to  the  world,  apply  them  to  the  highest  and 
noblest  uses,  and  so  justify  myself  before  men?  In 
some  such  manner  did  I  put  to  my  own  soul  the  posi- 
tion, trying  ever  to  keep  in  view  the  sanctity,  the 
holiness  of  life,  and  the  preciousness  of  its  holiest  of 
holies,  where  dwell,  as  I  have  said,  the  power  and  the 
glory. 

It  is  late  in  the  evening  of  this  most  momentous 
day,  and  I  must  put  down  my  pen,  but  there  is  one 
thought  which  perhaps  may  serve  as  answer  to  the 
scepticism  so  often  expressed  when  I  asserted  my 
belief  in  this  world  after  all.  I  mean  if  a  man,  when 
he  experiences  some  transcendent  joy,  is  prompted 
to  express  that  joy  in  terms  of  nobler  effort  and 
jterner  consecration  to  the  welfare  of  others — does 
not  this  fact  lead  him  to  infer  that  happiness  is,  at 
least,  more  natural  than  unhappiness?  that  the 
universe  does  indeed  exist,  in  Emerson's  phrase, 
"hospitably  for  the  weal  of  souls"?  That,  in  fine, 
when  the  majority  turn  their  faces  this  way,  first 
keeping  the  houses  of  their  souls  swept  and  gar- 
nished for  the  love  they  are  awaiting,  then  will  the 
mountain  of  our  misery  be  levelled,  our  valleys  of 
despair  filled  up,  and  the  rough  places  of  life  made 
plain  ? 


162  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

So,  at  least,  it  seems  to  me  just  now  as  I  sit  and 
write.     How  I  long  for  a  talk  with  my  friend ! 

"You're  my  friend  ! 
What  a  thing  friendship  is,  world  without  end!" 

XXXI 

I  WAS  awakened  by  something  rattling  outside  my 
open  window-port,  wakened  to  a  small  tragedy.  A 
circular  wire  rat-trap,  depending  from  a  line  held 
by  someone  on  the  poop,  and  containing  two  frantic 
rats,  dangled  against  the  opening  Alas  how  they 
ran  round  and  round  and  round!  The  cause  of  all 
their  agony,  a  piece  of  decayed  fish  and  a  fragment 
of  mouldy  cheese,  was  left  untouched  as  they  dangled 
before  me.  The  voice  of  my  friend  the  Mate  is  audi- 
ble down  my  ventilator.  He  is  arguing  with  the 
Steward,  one  Nicholas,  of  whom  you  have  heard. 
Said  Nicholas  is  protesting  in  his  clickety  Graeco- 
English  fashion,  that  the  pelt  of  a  drowned  rat 
(dronded  raht,  Nicholas  loquitur)  is  worth  less  than 
that  of  one  skinned  alive.  To  which  horrible  doc- 
trine my  friend  the  Mate  opposes  a  blustering  Irish 
humaneness  issuing  in  "Dammit,  ye  shan't!"  Rat, 
meanwhile  dangling,  they  as  well  as  their  fate  hang- 
ing uncertain.  At  last  they  are  lowered.  (The 
Mate  talking,  I  think,  over  his  shoulder  at  Nicholas, 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  163 

who  stands,  probably  in  contemplative  fashion,  legs 
apart,  face  serious,  brain  calculating  income  deriva- 
ble from  rats  skinned  alive.)  The  line  rising  in  a 
minute,  I  turn  on  my  elbow  to  witness  the  end. 
Alas!  Helasf!  AchHimmeUU  How  are  the  mighty 
fallen!  Two  grey  shining  lumps,  each  with  tapering 
tail  dropped  limply  through  the  bottom;  fish,  cheese, 
and  rodents  all  on  one  dead  level  now,  given  over  to 
corruption.  Up,  up — I  hear  the  trap  grounded  on 
the  poop  over  my  head.  I  sigh  as  I  climb  out  and 
wash.  I  rather  like  rats.  The  Grey  One  in  the 
tunnel  is  an  old  chum  of  mine.  I  have  never  killed 
one  yet,  though  often  even  Grey  One  has  been 
chased  up  and  down,  in  fun.  He,  sitting  on  a 
stringer  and  twirling  his  whiskers,  has  "views,"  I 
think,  about  Men  with  Sticks,  his  conception  of  the 
Devil  and  all  his  angels. 

John  Thomas,  bursting  in  with  hot  water  for  shav- 
ing and  information  concerning  breakfast  in  the  cabin, 
interrupts  my  rat-reverie.  It  is  Sunday  morning. 

"Eight  o'clock,  sir.  Steward  say,  sir,  will  you  have 
breakfast  with  the  Chief  Officer?" 

"No  one  else  aboard?" 

"Second  Officer's  in  the  galley,  sir." 

"Where?" 

"Galley,  sir."  A  snigger  from  John  Thomas. 
"Come  aboard  early,  sir." 


164  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

"Oh!  Tell  the  Steward  'Yes,  with  pleasure.'" 
So!  I  finish  dressing  leisurely,  donning  patrol- 
jacket  and  uniform  cap,  and  "turn  out."  It  is  a 
calm  Sabbath  morning.  Not  yet  have  the  mists 
rolled  from  the  heights  which  frown  upon  us  all 
around,  but  the  sun  glitters  on  the  docked  shipping, 
silent  save  for  the  flapping  of  sea  gulls  and  the  clank 
of  some  fresh-water  pump.  With  a  glance  of  hom- 
age towards  the  sun,  I  go  below  for  my  inspection. 
Boilers,  fires  banked  in  the  donkey-boilers  over  week- 
end, bilges,  sea-cocks  all  in  order;  I  am  at  liberty  to 
enjoy  my  day  of  rest.  Nicholas,  in  white  drill  coat, 
shining  silver  buttons,  and  shore-boots  of  burnished 
bronze  hue,  glides  aft  with  a  dish  (held  high,  in  the 
professional  manner)  covered  with  a  dome  of  gleam- 
ing pewter.  Two  youths  on  the  quay,  fishing  hope- 
lessly for  insignificant  dock  carp,  watch  with  open- 
mouthed  awe.  My  own  buttons  of  yellow  metal, 
linen  collar,  and  badge  de  rigueur,  pass  a  similar  scru- 
tiny as  I  follow  him  to  the  saloon. 

The  saloon,  compared  with  our  own  quarters,  is 
sumptuously  furnished.  Panelled  in  hard  woods, 
white  ceiling  with  shining  nickel  rods  and  brackets, 
carpeted  floor  and  ruby-plush  upholstering — into 
such  a  palace  I  step  to  take  breakfast  with  my  friend 
the  Mate.  He  is  already  entrenched  behind  the 
pewter  dome,  Nicholas  gliding  round  giving  the  final 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  165 

touch  of  art  to  the  preparations.  The  subject  of 
skinned  rats  has  vanished  to  make  room  for  the 
serious  business  of  his  life. 

"Good-mornin',  Mr.  McAlnwick.  Sit  there!  We 
are  alone  to-day,  as  ye  see.  Nicholas!" 

Nicholas  is  a  believer  in  ritual.  He  is  tolling  his 
little  brass  hand-bell  just  as  though  everyone  was 
here.  In  a  minute  he  reappears. 

"Sir?" 

"Is  Mr.  Hammerton  aboard?"  A  snigger  from 
John  Thomas,  installed  pro  tern,  in  the  pantry  as  the 
Steward's  aide-de-camp. 

"  'S  in  de  galley,  mister." 

"Does  he  want  any  breakfast?" 

"No,  sir.  'S  'sleep  in  de  galley."  Another 
snigger. 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  boy?"  thunders 
my  friend  the  Mate,  lifting  the  dome  from  ham  and 
eggs. 

"He  is  merely  cursed  with  a  sense  of  humour,  Mr. 
Honna,"  I  observe,  and  we  avoid  conversational  rock 
and  shoals  until  we  are  ensconced  in  his  private  berth. 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  Mr.  Hammerton's 
a  very  foolish  young  feller.  Help  yourself  to  some 
tobacco.  Knowin'  as  I  do  that  when  he  went  ashore 
last  night  he  had  twenty-six  pounds  ten  in  his  cash 
pocket,  I  wonder  he  isn't  lyin'  at  the  bottom  o'  the 


i66  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

dock  instead  of  in  the  galley.     He  will  not  bank  his 
surplus.     And  he  will  get  drunk." 

"What's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all,  Mr.  Honna?" 

"I'll  show  ye!"  With  a  hoarse  whisper  he  rises, 
tip-toes  swiftly  along  the  corridor  to  the  Second 
Officer's  room,  and  returns  with  a  photograph. 

Baby!  Is  she  another  milestone  nearer  to  Alsatia, 
then  ?  My  pipe  remains  unlit  as  I  gaze  at  the  cheap 
provincial  photograph  of  a  girl  with  large  eyes  and 
a  sensuous  mouth. 

Mr.  Honna  pushes  his  cap  back  and  stares  at  me. 

"What!     D'ye  know  her?" 

"It's  Baby,"  I  answer,  laying  the  thing  down. 
"Baby!" 

"He's  engaged  to  her." 

"Since  when?" 

"Since — Gawd  knows — last  Monday,  I  believe." 

I  reach  for  the  matches,  and  recount  to  the  Mate 
my  knowledge  of  Baby.  His  nose  wrinkles  up,  his 
eyes  diminish  to  steel-blue  points  of  fire,  and  he  nods 
his  head  slowly  to  my  tale. 

"Same  old  yarn.  Oh,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  are  there 
not  queer  things  come  in  with  the  tide  ?  Now  listen, 
while  I  tell  ye.  'Tis  what  they  all  do.  They 
dangle  round  bars,  all  at  loose  ends,  they  get  their 
master's  tickets,  and  they  marry  barmaids.  Then 
when  the  command  comes  along,  the  woman  keeps 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  167 

the  man  down  in  the  mud.  'Twas  with  me,  too.  I 
was  engaged  to  a  Nova  Scotia  girl — two  Nova 
Scotia  girls — different  times.  I'd  roll  round  town, 
givin'  'em  to  understand  I  was  master,  take  'em  out 
drivin'  in  a  buggy  Sunday  evenin',  makin'  a  fool  o' 
meself  fine.  When  the  crash  came — oh,  Mr.  Mc- 
Alnwick,  make  use  of  your  advantages  now  yer're 
at  sea! — when  the  crash  came,  we  were  just  ready 
to  sail,  an'  I  stayed  by  the  ship.  But  next  time 
'twould  be  the  same.  I  couldn't  be  acquainted  with 
a  girl  for  a  week  without  proposin'  matrimony! 
Mr.  McAlnwick,  ye  mustn't  laugh.  'Tis  the  truth. 
Even  now — but  why  talk?  Ye  know  my  sym- 
pathetic nature.  But  this  seems  to  be  serious.  So 
she's  the  barmaid  at  the  Stormy  Petrel,  is  she? 
Humph!" 

"His  brains  must  be  addled,"  I  observe,  "not  to 
see " 

"Ah!  but  ye're  young,  Mr.  McAlnwick!  That's 
no  hindrance  in  the  worrld  to — to  such  as  him.  Oh, 
dear  no!" 

"Then  such  as  he  have  a  very  low  standard  of 
morality." 

"Mr.  McAlnwick,  now  listen.  When  ye've  been 
sent  to  sea  at  twelve  year  old  as  apprentice,  an' 
ploughed  the  oceans  of  the  worrld  for  five  years  in 
the  foc'sle,  when  ye've  been  bullied  an'  damned  by 


1 68  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

fifty  different  skippers  on  fifty  different  trades  as 
third  and  second  mate,  when  ye've  split  yer  head 
studyin'  for  yer  ticket,  when  ye've  got  it  and  ye're 
glad  to  go  second  mate  at  seven  pounds  ten  a  month, 
when  ye  see  men  o'  less  merit  promoted  because  they 
marry  skippers'  daughters  while  you  are  walkin* 
the  bridge — what  'ud  ye  do?" 

"I  don't  know,  mister."  I  am  taken  aback  by  the 
velocity  of  the  question,  by  the  Mate's  earnestness. 

"Ye'd  turn  callous  or  religious,  or  go  mad!  Ye 
see,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  there's  a  lot  ye  miss,  though  ye 
won't  admit  it.  Ye  come  to  sea  and  ye  meet  the 
cloth,  but  ye  don't  realise  their  trainin'.  Ye  laugh  at 
us  for  our  queer  ways,  such  as  never  walkin'  on  the 
poop  over  the  Skipper's  head,  never  askin'  for  an- 
other helpin',  never  arguin'  the  point,  an'  such  like. 
But  consider  that  man's  trainin'!  Ye  cannot? 
Ye've  been  brought  up  ashore,  ye've  had  oppor- 
tunities for  studyin'  and  conversin'  with  edyecated 
people,  an'  ye're  frettin'  for  some  young  lady,  as  I 
can  see — don't  deny  it,  I  saw  Postie  bring  the  letter — 
and  ye  wouldn't  touch  the  likes  o'  this  with  a  pair  o' 
tongs.  But  with  Mr.  Hammerton  'tis  different,  do 
ye  not  see  ? " 

"Yes,  I  see,  a  little.     But  you  yourself,  now " 

"Me?  Oh,  'twas  a  special  providence  preserved 
me,  Mr.  McAlnwick.  I  was  waitin'  for  a  command 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  169 

at  the  time,  and  I  was  unable  to  get  out  o'  the  bar- 
gain. But  ye  know  my  wife." 

Now,  there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind,  after  some 
thought,  that  the  Chief  Officer  was  right  in  insisting 
on  the  unspanned  gulf  between  the  old  style  officer 
and  the  men  of  our  sphere.  Heavenly  powers! 
What  have  I  not  seen,  now  that  the  Mate  has  re- 
minded me?  The  fatuous  ignorance,  the  bigoted 
conceit,  the  nauseous  truckling  to  "the  Old  Man," 
the  debased  intellect.  And  yet  the  Second  Officer 
does  not  always  lie  in  drunken  stupor  on  the  galley 
bench.  I  call  to  mind  a  time  when  he  took  a  violin 
and  played  to  me  as  the  sun  went  down  across  the 
foam-flecked  sea.  Let  us  remember  him  by  that 
rather  than  by  his  present  state,  and  leave  the  rest  to 
God. 

XXXII 

IT  is,  I  think,  an  inestimable  privilege  to  claim  the 
friendship  of  a  man  whose  life  and  letters  are  a 
perpetual  stimulus  to  action,  an  invariable  provoca- 
tive of  thought.  I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  my 
friend,  telling  me  that  he  is  in  despair  of  the  stage. 
His  play  is  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  he  vows  that  he 
has  done  with  dramatic  art  for  ever. 

Now  being,  like  Goldsmith,  a  person  who  spends 
much  time  in  taverns  and  coffee-houses,  where  one 


170  .4 AT  OCEAN  TRAMP 

can  study  every  conceivable  shade  of  character,  I 
took  my  friends'  letter  up  town  with  me,  and  sat 
down  to  muse  over  it  and  a  tankard  of  ale.  It  was  a 
cosy  bar,  cosier  than  the  Cheshire  Cheese,  if  more 
modern;  I  sank  back  in  a  deep  lounge  and  watched 
the  world  go  round. 

To  commence,  I  thought  to  myself,  these  people 
here  constitute  a  potential  public  for  a  play.  There- 
fore, supposing  it  were  my  play,  my  attitude  towards 
them  is  a  factor  in  the  dramatic  problem.  What  is 
my  definition,  my  analysis  of  this  potential  public  ? 

Well,  they  are  all  engaged  in  a  terrific  struggle  for 
safety.  They  have  no  social  instinct  apart  from  the 
instinct  to  combine  for  safety.  Their  ideal  is  a 
tradesman,  a  pedlar,  who  has  accumulated  sufficient 
wealth  to  be  safe  from  poverty.  Their  ideal  of 
religion  is  one  which  guarantees  safety  from  hell. 
They  do  not  believe,  and  they  tell  you  bluntly  they 
do  not  believe,  any  man  who  claims  to  be  an  altruist. 
They  do  not  believe  any  man  who  protests  that  he 
does  not  worship  wealth — i.e.,  safety. 

By  this  time  I  was  puzzled  to  know  how  to  answer 
my  friend's  complaints.  All  I  knew  was  that,  to 
strike  one  blow  on  the  metal  and  drop  the  hammer 
because  it  jarred  his  fingers,  argues  sloth,  not  the 
"artistic  temperament."  Oh,  mon  ami,  that  "artis- 
tic temperament."  "Is  this  all?  Up  again!"  If 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  171 

you  are  discouraged  I  can  only  suggest  a  course  of 
reading  in  the  lives  of  dramatists.  I  recall  a  few  off- 
hand— Lessing,  Moliere,  Scribe,  Wagner,  Ibsen, 
these  will  suffice.  When  did  they  stop  and  fold 
their  hands  in  despair?  As  for  the  Elizabethan  and 
Restoration  playwrights,  their  facility  of  invention, 
their  exuberance  under  difficulties  is  devastating. 
That,  however,  is  not  your  problem.  Your  drama 
of  to-day  is  an  old  bottle  with  no  wine  in  it.  -  You 
fail  because  words  have  ceased  to  have  any  definite 
meaning.  The  words  in  a  man's  mouth  bear  as  little 
relation  to  his  emotions  as  the  architecture  of  his 
house  bears  to  his  ideas.  Words  like  Love,  God, 
Faith,  and  Soul  are  mere  coloured  balloons  floating 
about  the  modern  West  End  stage.  It  is  easy  to  be 
horrified  at  such  a  view,  but  men  like  me,  who  deal 
with  things,  are  not  to  be  humbugged.  You  put  a 
man  in  a  commonplace  predicament,  and  you  make 
him  say  tragically,  "The  die  is  cast,"  or  "I  will  see 
him  hanged  first,"  or  "All  is  over  between  us." 
That  is  not  drama;  it  is  nonsense.  Dies  are  rarely 
cast  nowadays,  public  hangings  have  been  abolished, 
and  salaries  rule  too  low  to  risk  breach  of  promise 
actions.  There's  your  dilemma.  Write  me  a  play 
in  which  every  word  is  meant — the  drama  will  look 
after  itself.  But,  if  you  will  allow  a  young  man  to 
suggest  a  point,  I  say  that  you  are  all  working  in  the 


172  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

dark;  you  are  groping  blindly  forward  when  you 
might  rejoice  in  the  sunlight.  And  now,  with  my 
colleagues  as  texts,  I  shall  read  a  homily  on  the 
conditions  of  modern  dramatic  art. 

The  division  of  biped  mammalia  into  merely  men 
and  women  is  of  comparatively  recent  date.  In 
very  early  times,  however,  when  wisdom  was  com- 
moner than  now,  the  classification  began  with  gods 
and  goddesses,  heroes,  men  and  women,  with  lower 
types  like  fauns  and  satyrs.  I  venture  to  think  that 
this  nomenclature  might  with  advantage  be  revived. 
From  time  to  time,  in  the  history  of  the  human  mind 
since  Anno  Domini,  one  sees  efforts  to  differentiate, 
generally  with  scant  success.  The  Roman  Catholic 
Church,  with  her  elaborate  canonising  machinery, 
stands  as  the  most  prosperous  example  of  this,  though 
with  the  vital  fault  of  postponing  the  sanctifying  till 
after  death.  She,  again,  is  responsible  for  another 
attempt,  viz.,  the  infallibility  of  her  ministers,  a 
promising  enough  plan,  but  ill  regulated.  The 
Stuart  regime,  urging  with  unpleasant  vigour  the 
divinity  of  kingship  and  the  corresponding  caddish- 
ness  (or  decadence)  of  much  of  the  rest  of  mankind, 
is  a  signal  example  of  how  my  plan  should  not  be 
carried  out.  Carlyle's  heroes  are  mostly  supermen; 
individuals,  not  types. 

Now,  I  suggest  to  you  that  we  agree  to  classify  my 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  173 

colleagues,  the  masters  of  the  mighty  vapour,  the 
beings  who  are  the  real  cloud-compellers  of  our  day, 
as  heroes.  If  I  mistake  not,  I  have  a  prior  claim  to 
the  word,  too,  in  that  Hero's  engine  is  the  type  of  all 
our  modern  prime  movers,  the  supreme  type  to  which 
we  are  ever  striving  to  approximate.  Masters  of  the 
vapour-driven  sphere!  Not  men,  but  heroes,  having 
their  own  thoughts,  their  own  joys  and  sorrows, 
their  own  gods;  more  than  men,  in  that  they  need 
less  than  men,  less  than  gods,  in  that  they  owe 
allegiance  to  them. 

Well,  then,  here  is  your  dramatic  problem.  Until 
you  recognise  the  fact  that  such  beings  as  I  have 
indicated  do  actually  inhabit  the  earth  and  cover  the 
sea  with  their  handiwork,  until  you  consider  the 
tremendous  fact  that  your  world's  work  is  done  by 
heroes,  and  not  by  politicians  and  commercial 
travellers,  that,  in  short,  your  intellectual  Franken- 
steins  have  made  a  million-brained  monster  whom 
you  cannot,  dare  not  destroy,  your  drama  will  not  be 
a  living  force.  I  hold  out  no  hope  that  the  problem 
is  easy  of  solution;  I  only  know  it  exists.  You  will 
first  of  all  become  as  little  children,  and  learn,  as 
best  you  may,  what  makes  the  wheels  go  round. 
Learn,  that  you  may  teach,  by  your  creative  art. 
Above  all,  remember,  when  you  rise  to  protest  that  I 
am  forgetting  Nature,  that  together  with  "the  way 


174  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

of  an  eagle  in  the  air,  and  the  way  of  a  serpent  upon 
a  rock,"  the  Hebrew  poet  has  joined  "the  way  of  a 
ship  in  the  midst  of  the  sea,  and  the  way  of  a  man 
with  a  maid." 

XXXIII 

I  HAVE  been  up  town  "to  meeting,"  as  my  father  used 
to  say.  The  air  was  clear  and  warm  when  my  friend 
the  Mate  appeared  on  deck  in  all  the  splendour  of 
"shore  gear."  He  affects  a  material  which  never 
wears  out.  "Mr.  McAlnwick,  these  here  are  the 
pants  I  was  married  in!"  He  reserves  his  serious 
thoughts  for  underwear,  of  which  he  carries  a  por- 
tentous quantity  to  last  a  voyage.  Smart  young 
cadets,  who  never  wear  the  same  collar  twice,  and 
sport  white  shirts  and  soiled  souls  in  seamen's  mis- 
sions, are  the  Mate's  aversion.  He  has  severe 
censures  for  "gallivantin"'  and  "dressin'  for  show." 
He  approves  of  my  own  staid  habits  of  life,  after  the 
fashion  of  those  elderly  folk  who  admire  in  others 
what  they  so  sadly  lacked  in  their  own  spring-time. 
He  forgets  that  perhaps  even  I  have  trembled  with 
rage  because  there  was  a  spot  on  my  collar,  that  even 
I  may  have  spent  precious  moments  folding  and 
pressing  a  favourite  pair  of  trousers. 

The  Mate  does  not  often  go  ashore  nowadays, 
even  to  missions,  and  so  the  lavendery  smell  which 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  175 

exhales  from  the  historic  pants  scarcely  has  time  to 
dissipate  before  they  are  back  in  the  chest.  Differ- 
ent now,  from  his  young  days,  when  the  vessel  lay 
alongside  the  Quai  de  la  Bourse  in  Rouen  City,  and 
my  friend  stepped  across  each  evening  to  the  Cafe 
Victor  to  drink  creme  de  menthe  and  feel  that  listening 
to  the  band  was  rather  wicked  and  altogether  Con- 
tinental. Indeed,  his  attachment  to  the  ship  is  now 
proverbial,  the  prevailing  feeling  having  been  bril- 
liantly epitomised  by  himself.  "If  I  wash  me  face," 
he  snapped  to  me  one  day;  "If  I  wash  me  face,  they 
think  I'm  goin'  ashore!"  But  now  the  decent 
double-breasted  blue  serge,  the  trim  beard  and 
black  bowler  hat  are  in  evidence;  my  friend  the 
Mate  is  about  to  attend  divine  service  at  the 
Seamen's  Mission.  My  own  appearance  in  mufti 
causes  excitement. 

"Ye're  comin',  Mr.  McAlnwick?" 

"As  far  as  the  door,"  I  reply. 

The  Chief  Officer's  blue  eyes  glint  as  he  wrinkles 
his  nose. 

1  'Tis  my  opinion,  Mr.  McAlnwick,  that  ye've  a 
young  woman  in  the  town  yerself." 

And  we  go  forth  into  the  town.  At  the  door  of  the 
Mission  I  bid  the  Mate  farewell,  and  I  catch  a  last 
glimpse  of  him  as  he  removes  his  hat  and  wipes  his 
boots  with  the  diffidence  apparently  interwoven  in 


i  ;6  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

the  fibre  of  all  mariners  ashore.  He  is  not  of 
a  proselytising  disposition.  Strong  Orangeman,  an 
Ulster  Protestant,  and — the  rest.  So,  thinking  of 
him,  I  fare  onward,  watching  the  show.  Men  and 
maidens  idly  saunter  along,  or  hasten  to  the  house  of 
God.  Why,  I  wonder,  do  girls  of  religious  disposition 
allow  themselves  so  little  time  to  dress?  Two  or 
three  have  passed  me;  one  had  a  button  loose  at  the 
back  of  her  dress;  another's  "stole"  of  equivocal 
lace  was  unsymmetrically  adjusted  to  her  shoulders; 
and  so  on.  I  know  that  God  looketh  not  on  the 
outward  semblance,  but  I  am  also  painfully  aware 
that  young  men  are  not  fashioned  after  their  Creator 
in  that  respect,  and  my  desire  to  see  everybody 
married  is  outraged  by  these  omissions.  And  looking 
into  the  faces  of  my  fellow-passengers  this  Sunday 
evening,  I  am  led  to  think  that,  as  a  class,  girls  are 
not  very  beautiful  objects  when  they  lack  refinement. 
I  see  much  raw  material  around  me  which  might 

possibly  be  hewn  into  lovely  shape — but To  my 

friend,  with  his  intellectual  Toryism,  this  hiatus  is 
quite  reasonable.  These  lower  classes,  he  will  ob- 
serve sublimely,  have  their  functions;  refinement  is 
not  for  all.  And  the  St.  James's  Gazette  rustles  com- 
fortably as  he  sinks  back  into  the  saddle-bags  again! 
Well,  let  me  be  honest  in  this  matter.  My  mind 
is  still  in  a  fluid  state  concerning  theories  of  society. 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  177 

I  can  only  generalise.  I  believe,  with  Emerson,  that 
the  world  exists  ultimately  for  the  weal  of  souls;  I 
believe,  also,  the  spiritually  correlative  truth,  the 
ultimate  probity  of  those  same  souls,  but — I  have 
not  yet  discovered  why  I  abhor  contact  with  those 
who  hold  the  same  political  faith.  Am  I  mis- 
anthropic? Or  unsocial?  Why,  when  I  sit  reso- 
lutely down  to  hear  my  own  beliefs  preached,  do  I 
silently  contest  each  point,  adopt  the  contrary  view? 
Why  do  I  avoid  "active  propaganda,"  "working  for 
the  cause,"  and  such  like?  Is  it  because  I  disbelieve 
utterly  in  preaching?  I  do  that,  anyway.  I  often 
think  how  much  farther  ahead  we  should  be  if  no  one 
ever  preached.  I  do  not  condemn  lecturing  by  any 
means.  I  dislike  the  packed  audience  of  the  conven- 
tional preacher,  socialistic  or  otherwise.  My  ideal 
is  the  heterogeneous  assembly,  hearkening  to  the 
words  of  a  man  skilled  in  oratory,  profound  in 
thought,  a  genius  in  the  art  of  the  suggestive  phrase. 
The  audience  in  all  probability  would  be  far  from 
clear  as  to  his  intentions;  they  would  grow  clearer 
as  time  went  on  and  the  suggestions  ripened  into 
independent  speculation.  If  they  could  under- 
stand at  once  what  he  intends,  they  would  stand  in 
no  need  of  his  ministry. 

You  will  perceive  how  unfitted  I  was  for  the  meet- 
ing I  attended  to-night.     The  uppermost  thought  in 


178  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

mind  as  I  left  was,  "I  do  not  believe  in  bloodless 
revolutions."  You  cannot  have  a  revolution  of 
society  without  turning  part  of  it  upside  down.  And 
I  am  half  afraid  that  a  good  deal  of  what  I  value 
most  in  this  world  will  be  turned  upside  down  by  a 
socialistic  revolution.  Add  the  sad,  indisputable 
fact  that  if  everyone  were  a  Socialist  I  should,  by 
natural  law,  be  a  Tory,  and  you  will  see,  more  or 
less  accurately,  how  I  stand.  You  will  see,  too,  the 
cause  of  my  belief  in  heroes  and  gods,  which  latter 
you  call  natural  laws.  I  look  upon  myself  as  a 
man  working  among  gods  and  heroes,  and  I  am 
beginning  to  think  that  the  question  of  revolutions 
rests  always  ultimately  with  them,  while  I,  a  man, 
can  but  look  on  and  marvel. 

Well,  I  am  tired  with  my  jaunt.  One's  feet  are 
not  inured  to  walking  after  months  at  sea.  And  I 
hear  my  friend  the  Mate  overhead. 

"Mr.  McAlnwick,  ye  should  have  been  there!  The 
elite  o'  the  Mission  was  on  show.  An'  we  had  an 
anthem.  'Twas  good ! " 

I  slip  ashore  with  my  letter  before  turning  in. 

XXXIV 

THOUGH  I  had  no  intention  of  buying  many  books, 
the  dreary  loneliness  of  the  tavern  where  I  supped 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  179 

drove  me  out  upon  the  streets,  and  insensibly  I 
drifted  towards  my  favourite  second-hand  book- 
shop, where  the  little  maiden  behind  the  mountains 
of  Welsh  theology  reminds  me  of  someone  I  know. 
My  Welsh  Divinity  I  call  her,  hovering  bright- 
winged  above  the  dust-clouds  of  old  literature,  with 
clear  grey  eyes  and  nervous  mouth.  Not  "the  heir 
of  all  the  ages,"  I  fear,  though  the  potentiality  in  her 
must  be  infinite  and  beyond  my  ken.  "What  do 
you,  oh,  young  man?'*  So  I  seem  to  read  the  query 
in  her  eyes.  "Are  you  only  a  hodman  in  this  book- 
yard,  then?  Where  is  she  ?  What  is  she  ?  Who  is 
she  ?  '''  As  I  stand  and  thumb  the  serried  ranks  of 
corpses,  I  feel  her  gaze  upon  me.  Quite  inarticulate, 
both  of  us,  you  understand — I  as  shy  as  she. 

I  must  seem  extraordinarily  sensitive  to  you,  I 
think.  Merely  the  presence  of  this  child  stirs  my  soul 
to  nobler  ideals.  I  feel  invigorated  and  refreshed.  So 
my  lady  stirs  me;  so  even  the  mere  presence  of  some 
men  we  know.  In  like  manner,  I  imagine,  is  my 
friend  influenced  by  superb  music.  They  affect  me 
like  an  essay  by  Pater,  a  Watts  portrait,  or  a  Dulwich 
Cuyp,  a  feeling  which  I  can  only  call  a  passionate  in- 
tellectualism,  a  loosening  of  corporeal  encumbrances. 
My  friend  will  not  carp  because  I  seem  to  place  my 
love  for  my  mistress  in  a  category  with  a  Dutch 
landscape  and  an  aesthetic  essay — he  will  understand. 


i8o  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

I  have  no  desire  to  be  proud,  but  I  confess  I  have 
never  appreciated  that  amorousness  which  prompts 
the  lovers  to  exchange  hats  as  well  as  vows.  Indeed, 
I  scarcely  understand  what  the  older  poets  mean  by 
vows  even.  What  are  these  vows?  By  whom  are 
they  kept?  Of  what  avail  are  they  when  they  are 
most  needed?  Nearly  as  useless  as  marriage  vows, 
these  of  the  trysting-place,  I  fancy.  You  hold  up 
your  hands  in  horror  at  this,  not  because  you  dis- 
agree, but  because  of  my  audacity  in  applying 
general  modernisms  to  myself.  Well,  I  am  tired  of 
people  who  pose  as  advanced  thinkers  and  remain  as 
conventional  as  ever.  We  have  outgrown  so  much 
of  the  sentimentalism  of  Love  that  muddle-headed 
moderns  imagine  that  we  have  outgrown  Love  itself. 
The  keynote  of  everything  worthy  in  modern  life  and 
art  and  philosophy  is — restraint.  I  decline  to  regard 
ranting  as  eloquence  because  the  Elizabethan  ranted 
well,  and  I  decline  also  to  accept  the  Shakesperian 
conception  of  Love,  viz.,  physical  satiety,  as  the  very 
latest  thing  in  ideals. 

Restraint,  then!  A  marriage  is  doubtless,  as 
Chesterton  so  admirably  puts  it,  a  passionate  com- 
promise, but  it  does  not  follow  that  love  is  therefore  a 
compromising  debauchery.  It  may  be  that  I,  who 
have  my  ways  far  from  feminine  influence,  tend  to 
place  women  in  a  rarer  and  purer  atmosphere  than 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  181 

most  of  them  breathe,  and  that  this  tendency  unfits 
me  for  judging  them  accurately.  Let  it  be  so.  Let 
my  Welsh  Divinity  watch  me  from  beyond  the  dust- 
clouds  of  learning  with  her  grey  eyes,  while  I  pray 
never  to  lose  my  reverence  for  the  quiet  loveliness  of 
which  she  is,  so  unconsciously,  the  type. 


XXXV 

ONCE  more  I  am  out  at  sea.  I  have  stowed  away 
my  "shore  gear,"  slipped  the  movable  bar  across  my 
bookshelf,  screwed  up  my  windows,  and  made  all 
snug  against  the  wind  blowing  up-Channel.  There 
is  a  gentle  roll;  she  is  in  ballast,  for  the  Western 
Ocean,  and  the  Mate  does  not  smile  when  we  discuss 
the  probable  weather.  He  would  like  a  little  more 
ballast,  I  know,  and  he  thinks  she  " draws  too  much 
forrard."  Well,  I  am  minded  to  go  on  deck  for  a 
smoke  before  I  turn  in.  And  the  Third  Officer  is  on 
watch. 

I  call  him  the  Innovation.  There  is  to  be  much 
tallying  on  this  charter,  and  there  is  a  happy  rumour 
that  the  Benvenuto  will  pay  in  future.  "I  hear," 
said  my  friend  the  Mate,  "I  hear,  Mr.  McAlnwick, 
that  she  has  been  reconstructed."  By  which  he 
means  that  certain  financial  props  have  been  intro- 
duced into  her  economy,  and  she  is  no  longer  in 


1 82  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

liquidation.  The  Mate  glories  in  a  four-hour 
watch,  and  the  Innovation  takes  the  eight  to  twelve. 

He  walks  across  the  bridge  with  a  dozen  swift 
strides.  Then  a  peculiar  slew  of  his  active  little 
frame,  and  he  whirls  back  to  starboard.  His  keen, 
clean-shaven  face,  hardened  prematurely  into  an 
expression  of  relentless  ferocity,  looks  out  from  the 
peak  of  his  badge-cap,  the  strap  cramming  the 
crown  against  his  bullet  head.  He  is  twenty-two, 
and  pure  Liverpool.  He  served  his  apprenticeship 
in  sail  on  the  Australian  and  Western  American 
coasts.  A  middle-class  education  is  submerged 
beneath  seven  years  at  sea,  seven  years  of  unbridled 
lust,  seven  years  of  the  seven  deadly  sins,  seven 
years  of  joyous  and  impenitent  animalism. 

There  is  no  break  in  his  voice  when  he  speaks  of 
"his  old  lady" — she  is  religious.  His  "old  man"  is 
"a  hard  case,"  another  name  for  a  Liverpool  skipper. 
He  met  his  brother  this  time  at  home — "didn't 
know  him,  mister.  Hadn't  seen  him  for  six  years." 
His  knowledge  of  some  things  extends  from  Sydney 
and  Melbourne  to  Marseilles  and  Hamburg,  from 
Amsterdam  to  Valparaiso;  he  drinks  Irish  neat,  and 
his  conversation  is  blistered  from  end  to  end  with 
blasphemous  invocations  of  the  name  of  the  Son  of 
God. 

I  do  not  overdraw  this  picture  of  one  who  is  only  a 


,4 AT  OCEAN  TRAMP  183 

type  of  thousands.  It  is  impossible  to  give  any 
adequate  specification  of  him.  He  takes  me,  meta- 
phorically, by  the  throat,  and  I  am  helpless.  With 
vivid  strokes  he  paints  me  scene  after  scene,  episode 
after  episode,  of  his  life  in  "a  windbag,"  and  I  see 
that  he  exaggerates  not  at  all.  He  candidly  admits 
that,  in  his  opinion,  Marseilles  is  heaven  and  Georgia 
the  other  extreme.  He  passed  for  second  mate  a 
month  ago,  collected  half  a  dozen  shipmates,  and 
terminated  the  orgies  in  the  police-court. 

The  psychology  of  such  a  soul  fascinates  me.  I 
hold  to  my  cardinal  doctrine  of  the  illimitable  virtue 
latent  in  all  men;  and  I  am  right.  The  unspeakable 
anathemas  he  pronounces  on  a  certain  skipper,  who 
let  one  of  his  apprentices  die  in  a  West  Coast  "hos- 
pital," his  own  terrific  descent  into  the  Chilean 
"common  grave,"  groping  for  the  body  among  the 
rotten  corpses,  feeling  for  the  poor  lad's  breast, 
where  hung  a  broken  rouble,  token  of  some  bygone 
Black  Sea  passion — all  this  tells  me  that  I  am  right. 
Stark  materialist  though  he  is,  he  looks  with  scared 
awe  upon  the  mysteries  of  religion,  and  the  denuncia- 
tions of  the  Dream  on  Patmos  make  him  hope  and 
pray  that  his  own  end  may  come  in  a  deep  sleep. 

We  are  out  beyond  the  Scillies  now,  and  the 
Atlantic  stretches  before  us  in  a  grey,  ominous 
immensity.  The  wind  is  rising  steadily  as  I  turn  in, 


i84  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

and  the  ship  is  rolling  deep.  The  waves  loom  up, 
white-crested,  snap  sullenly,  and  surge  away  aft.  A 
deeper  roll,  the  sea  crashes  against  my  ports,  and  I 
screw  them  tighter.  I  think  we  are  to  have  a  bad 
night  of  it.  As  I  draw  my  curtain  I  catch  sight  of  a 
letter  on  my  drawer-top,  and  I  sink  back  with  a 
sigh  of  content.  "A  grey  eye  or  so!" 

XXXVI 

I  FEEL  strangely  to-night,  and  I  cannot  sleep.  As  I 
woke,  Six  Bells,  eleven  o'clock,  was  striking,  half 
carried  away  by  the  wind.  For  the  storm  is  rising, 
and  a  beam  sea  sends  wave  after  wave  against  my 
ports.  Now  and  then,  in  the  lulls,  I  feel  the  race  of 
the  propeller  as  she  rises  from  the  water,  sending  vast 
tremors  through  the  frame  of  the  empty  ship.  How 
she  rolls!  In  my  thwart-ship  bunk  I  slide  up  and 
down,  and  the  green  seas  thunder  over  my  head  re- 
peatedly. As  I  turn  out  I  feel  excited.  North 
Atlantic,  light  ship. 

The  mess-room  is  silent,  dark.  To  and  fro  on  the 
floor  there  washes  a  few  inches  of  water.  The  stove- 
pipe has  been  carried  away,  and  the  sea  has  flooded 
the  stove.  The  solid  teak  door  at  the  top  of  the 
companion  groans  as  the  tons  of  water  are  hurled 
against  it.  The  brass  lamp  glimmers  in  the  darkness, 


AN  OCEAN  TRAMP  185 

creaking  as  it  swings.  Against  the  white  wall  the 
Steward's  whiter  apron  sways  like  a  ghost,  fluttering 
in  some  eddy  of  draught.  In  the  tiny  pantry  the 
cups  clink  softly  on  their  hooks.  And  outside  the 
storm-wind  whistles  in  demoniac  fury. 

Across  the  room  a  narrow  slit  of  light  shows 
where  the  Fourth's  room  is  hooked  ajar.  I  go  across 
and  peer  in.  He  is  on  watch,  of  course,  and  there  is 
no  one  there.  But  all  round  I  see  littered  the  belong- 
ings of  George's  successor.  A  quiet,  likeable  Glas- 
gow laddie,  as  I  know  him  yet.  He  has  put  up  his 
bunk  curtains,  and  as  they  sway  I  catch  a  glimpse  of 
a  portrait.  And  so?  Who  can  blame  me  if  I  look 
searchingly  into  the  eyes  of  the  girl  with  ribbon 
in  her  hair  and  a  silver  cross  on  her  breast?  And 
just  beneath  the  narrow  gold  frame,  swinging  on  a 
screw,  there  is  a  coloured  paper  design,  which  I 
know  emanates  from  the  Order  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 
It  is  an  indulgence  for  one  hundred  days,  and  it  has 
been  blessed  by  the  Vicar  of  Christ.  Yes,  and  the 
laddie  will  have  one  on  his  breast,  next  the  skin,  as  he 
stands  by  the  throttle  down  below.  And  when  we 
are  half  a  world  away  from  the  parish  church,  he  will 
be  mindful  of  the  tonsured  man  who  gave  him  these; 
he  will  read  the  little  red  Prayer  Book,  and  he  will  be 
ill  at  ease  on  Friday  when  we  pass  him  the  salt 
fish. 


1 86  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

Glancing  at  an  old  cigar-box  full  of  letters,  I  go 
out  softly  and  hook  the  door. 

For  all  the  darkness  and  the  rushing  water  it  is 
close,  and  I  go  up  and  struggle  desperately  with  the 
teak  door,  biding  my  time  until  the  waters  surge 
back  to  the  rail.  The  door  crashes  to  again,  and  I 
struggle  on  to  the  poop.  To  my  amazement  there 
are  men  here,  four  of  them  at  the  wheel.  And  my 
friend  the  Mate,  in  oilskins  and  sou'wester,  walking 
back  and  for'ard.  I  cry  his  name,  but  my  voice  is 
swept  into  the  void.  He  sees  me,  but  does  not 
speak,  only  walks  to  and  fro.  To  me,  strung  up  to  a 
tautness  of  sensation  that  almost  frightens  me,  this 
silence  of  the  Mate  is  horrible.  I  feel  a  pain  in  my 
chest  like  the  pressure  of  a  heavy  weight  as  I  look  at 
him.  And  the  four  men  toil  at  the  wheel,  for  the 
steering  chains  have  been  carried  away. 

Looking  for'ard,  I  see  on  the  well-deck  the  white 
wreckage  of  a  boat,  and  I  begin  to  tremble  with 
excitement.  If  the  Mate  would  only  speak!  A 
thought  strikes  me — that  he  will  never  speak  to  me 
again;  then  the  sea  comes.  As  she  rolls  to  starboard, 
the  great  wave  lifts  his  head  and  springs  like  a  wild 
beast  at  the  rail.  A  hoarse  roar,  a  rending,  splitting 
sound  of  gear  going  adrift,  and  the  sea  strikes  the 
poop  with  terrific  impact.  Then  the  water  soughs 
away  through  the  scuppers.  And  athwart  the 


,4 AT  OCEAN  TRAMP  187 

blackened  sky  there  darts  a  dazzling  flash  of  light- 
ning. As  I  hold  to  my  stanchion,  soaked  to  the 
skin,  I  watch  the  wrath  of  God  on  the  face  of  the 
waters. 

Making  a  rush,  I  gain  the  shelter  of  the  canvas 
screen  round  the  cabin  companion,  and  I  bump  into 
the  Innovation.  From  beneath  the  dripping  sou'- 
wester his  small,  keen  face  peers  up  at  me,  and  he 
utters  his  inevitable  blasphemy.  He  hugs  his  left 
hand  to  his  side.  "Mister!"  he  hisses  in  my  ear, 
"for  the  love  of  Christ  get  me  a  scarf  out  o'  me  berth. 
It's  a  blue  one,  in  the  top  drawer."  Then,  darting 
out  for  a  moment,  he  yells  "Ai!"  boiling  over  into 
asterisks.  He  darts  in  again,  hugging  his  hand.  My 
foot  is  in  the  door,  and  together  we  wrench  it  open.  I 
drop  down  the  companion  and  turn  into  his  berth  for 
the  scarf. 

It  is  while  coming  back  that  I  see  into  the  cabin, 
and  I  halt.  The  Skipper  is  standing  under  the  lamp 
holding  out  his  hand  for  a  cup  of  coffee.  And 
Nicholas,  the  fears  and  imaginings  of  a  volatile  race 
blanching  his  wizened  features,  rocks  unsteadily 
across  the  floor.  The  big  man  with  the  white  hair, 
red  face,  and  cold  blue  eyes,  towers  over  him,  those 
same  eyes  snapping  with  something  that  has  nought 
to  do  with  money-making  or  Brixton,  something  not 
mentioned  in  any  Board  of  Trade  regulations. 


1 88  AN  OCEAN  TRAMP 

And  Nicholas,  holding  by  the  table,  looks  like  a  rat 
in  a  trap,  shaking  with  the  fear  of  sudden  death.  A 
word  from  the  Skipper,  and  he  turns  and  runs  a 
zig-zag  course  for  the  door.  He  cannot  see  me  in  the 
darkness,  but  I  hear  him  whinnying  a  song  to  steady 
his  nerves: 

"Ess,  a  young  maid's  broken-' earted 
When  a  ship  is  outward  bound." 

His  face  is  pinched  and  drawn,  his  beady  eyes 
move  unceasingly,  and  I  think  of  one  who  said,  "His 
nose  was  as  sharp  as  a  pen,  and  'e  babbled  of  green 
fields." 


As  I  go  below  to  my  berth  again,  striving  with  the 
door  as  with  a  strong  man,  there  crackles  and  hisses 
a  forked  glare  of  lightning,  an  enormous  whip  driving 
the  great  white  horses  of  the  sea  to  madness.  On- 
ward they  spring,  phalanx  after  phalanx,  while  above 
the  riot  of  their  disintegration  glints  the  faint  yellow 
light  of  Fastnet.  Far  ofF  to  nor'ard,  guarding  Cape 
Clear,  hidden  at  times  by  the  mountainous  water, 
veiled  almost  to  obscurity  by  the  flying  spume,  it 
flashes,  a  coastwise  light.  And  on  the  eastern  hori- 
zon— O  wondrous  sight  to  me! — the  black  pall  has 
lifted  a  little  from  the  tumbling  waters,  leaving  a 


,4 AT  OCEAN  TRAMP  189 

band  of  yellow  moonlight  with  one  green-flashing 
star. 

Reaching  my  berth  once  more,  the  terror  and 
delight  of  that  last  glimpse  is  upon  me.  In  that 
strange  yellow  rift  at  midnight,  backing  the  world  of 
dark  chaos,  that  star  of  palest  green,  I  feel  a  thrill  of 
the  superhuman  sense  which  renders  Turner  inexplic- 
able to  Balham,  and  stabs  the  soul  with  demoniac 
joy  in  the  Steersman's  Song. 

One  Bell,  and  the  pen  drops  from  my  fingers.  And 
so,  until  the  day  break  and  the  shadows  flee  away,  I 
shall  be  at  my  post.  And  in  the  morning  there  will 
be  more  to  tell. 

THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY   LIFE  PRESS 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Los  A*10""'^ 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


"7k' 


UC  SOUTHERN [REGIONAL ^.J^ 


A  000  549  620  3 


PR 
6025 
Ml  60 


vrr 


m 


!fii!!ll  !  Hi! 


f      l 


! 
I 


i 


in'iii 


ijiijll 

i!!  llf1"1 

1 


I 

ill! 


i 


